The Porcelain Affairs
by R.K. Wesley
Summary: Owen van Burton, a simple man with a bleak outlook, finds that his world turns upside down with strange events that seem to plague him at every turn. With no other option, Owen turns to the one duo that could help. The Great Detective Sherlock Holmes and his assistant Dr. John Watson, work to help Owen find closure whist listening to Frank the Porcelain Turtle.
1. The Talking Turtle, pt 1

In a tiny flat, away from everyone's gaze, lived a solitary man. He had no friends, his family disowned him, and his neighbors were less than friendly than he expected. There were no visitors, unless Sheila came by for the rent. Parcels were scarce; he had not much money to spend on luxuries. He barely afforded to eat properly these last years. His job was crummy, to say politely, it was the only job he could take in the city.

He was the accountant of a small bakery shop. His supervisor, Bruno, always yelled at his sons' for whatever reason, enough for him to hear from his "office" which happened to be the utility closet. Whenever Bruno bothered to talk, it was mostly business.

Whenever his sons' talked, however, they always complained about their father. The man, being the meek man he was, tried to keep neutral.

Eight hours a day with barely any day offs, the man barely had enough money for Sheila each month, often causing him to cut into funds for food.

Having little money overall, the man barely found reason to go out and about, as if he had any reason for other than work. He tried to date, women and men, but it became too apparent that he was more afraid of them then they are of him, and so he continued his solitary lifestyle.

He had no pets, Sheila would not let him, and even then, it was not as if he could afford two mouths to feed. Therefore, in compromise, he had a pet porcelain turtle, lovingly called Frank. Frank is his only friend, the turtle could never judge him, and not that it mattered. It could not speak. Then as days grown long, he started humanizing the turtle.

He would converse with Frank, giving it an upper class accent with posh thrown in, and discuss rugby and the things that bothered him that Frank would listen and advise him. Frank was his own personal therapist, in a sense that he trusted a porcelain turtle to keep his secrets than someone with a hidden god complex.

The man, now known as Owen van Burton, feared the world.

He often glanced out of the small window in his bedroom, looking down on the street as people walked past the flat. He scanned every face he saw, wrote mental notes at every chance, making scores if he seen the same face twice. He dreaded when he sees anyone standing near his flat for more than a minute, sulking under the windowsill, afraid someone spotted him.

Reasons Owen never found, these days of his has been strange as of late. His migraines persisted at the worst time; his doctor switched him to stronger medication that left him drowsy. He started seeing people following him, almost intently when he was active. His flat was broken into multiple times, almost to the point where his security cameras wasted space and became a running joke between him and Frank. The worst came when he gone to the police, multiple times, but found they would not help him.

It gotten to the point where Owen outright quit his job with Bruno, reasons he gave were purposely vague. As for what Owen did for money, he took up various jobs on the Internet. It appeared that even websites needed an accountant and Owen gladly offered his services.

The Internet gave Owen the idea to turn to an unconventional way to put an end to this nightmare.

Bored out of his mind, Owen went through various message boards to come across one that detailed a particular case solved by a detective.

The irony, despite living in the same city as him, Owen never heard of him.

Following through a string of links on the message board, Owen found the website led by the purported Great Detective, Sherlock Holmes.

He took cases posted to his website, if it interested him, and Owen did not think this was interesting enough for him to bother.

Yet, Owen posted his unusual story to the website, anyway.

Eventually after hours spent on doing forms for a boutique website, Owen fell asleep in front of his computer while wearing his headphones, listening to a playlist he made months ago.

Resting his head against the pine wood desk, Owen snored until a blaring notification woke him up. He gotten an email, nothing unusual, groggily he checked it to find it by someone he'd never thought to see an email from.

It appeared his story intrigued the detective. Sherlock, almost insistently, wanted to meet with Owen. Owen had to grab coffee and wake up more before he re-read the email to affirm the detective's message. Elated that someone finally took interest in his story, Owen began discussing an appointment with Sherlock. It surprised Owen that Sherlock refused the idea outright. He instead asked Owen to come right now. Alternatively, when he was available and had the time to come out to his flat.

Owen affirmed he was indeed available now and the detective gave him his address, 221B Baker Street.

Far from his flat, Owen mentioned he would come in a cab and might be late arriving.

"Frank, you might want to check outside and see if Hell froze over," Owen struggled to take off his headphones. Once the headphones sat neatly on his desk, Owen got up and ran around the flat, getting ready to visit Sherlock.

"You won't believe it, Frank; someone finally wants to listen to me!" Owen furiously dried his hair with a towel as he hopped on one leg to the couch with his shoe hanging off the big toe. "I'll be late back; this bloke lives close to the downtown area!"

After putting on his good shoes, Owen got up with the wet towel in his hand. As he tossed the wet towel into the laundry basket, he heard Frank's response.

"Yes, he lives in the city, too. No, I never heard of him, never even met him," he answered the turtle's inquiry.

Combing his wet hair with his fingers, Owen looked around for a razor. Coming to the residence of the only person in the entire city willing to take up his case, Owen wanted to look mildly presentable. Having a scruffy five o' clock shadow put a dent in that and Owen wanted to rectify it quickly without the cuts.

Rummaging around his bathroom, Owen found no razor. He shouted at Frank, "Frank, where's my damn razor?"

As he checked the drug cabinet, he heard Frank's response. "What do you mean mine broke and I had to throw it away, where's my replacement?" Owen poked his head out of the bathroom to look at the porcelain turtle sitting comfortably on the TV stand with a National Geographic magazine opened to the article about Tennessee box turtles.

"Right, right, I forgot to buy it while I was out. I cannot look like a lunatic, Frank. I _have_ to be professional. There's no way I can walk out here without a good shave," Owen gestured with his hands as he stepped out of the bathroom to argue with his turtle. He cringed at the turtle's response and Owen raised his hands in defeat.

"He'll never accept my case if I look like a madman," Owen muttered to himself. The turtle then mentioned something about Sherlock. Owen chortled in response while pointing at the turtle. "Frank, I'm sure this Sherlock Holmes is a professional man, I mean, he'd have to be. He's a detective, yeah?" Owen gestured.

He quickly realized Frank the Turtle's wit was dryer than whey left out in the summer and given up discussing Sherlock.

Unable to run down to the market to grab a replacement razor, Owen decided to wet down his five o' clock shadow and threw on a quick dab of musk.

Frank loved every minute of it, teasing Owen that he was readying for a date rather than a meeting.

Owen growled at the porcelain turtle. He decided against insulting Frank, Frank would just come up with more things to say; instead Owen kept on until he stared at his reflection.

"My name is Owen van Burton," began Owen as he tried to keep calm, nervous. "I need your help, Mr. Holmes."

He practiced several times before he realized the time and as he ran down the stairs of his flat to head outside, there a cab waited for him.

Talking with the cabby, Sherlock arranged it. Owen accepted it face value and stepped into the taxi. As it pulled away from the curb, Owen glanced around, just the same faces he always seen, before he settled in his seat.

It took two hours, with traffic and accidents here and there, but Owen eventually arrived at 221B Baker Street. There to greet him was a blue door with cracks in the wood from water damage and age.

Nervous, Owen took a deep breath and knocked on the door. He waited until the door slowly opened to see an older woman standing there.

"Hi, I'm here for-looking for Sherlock Holmes," Owen forced himself to say. The woman looked him over before she nodded. She smiled as she led him inside, "Oh yes, he mentioned you were coming."

"Oh, that's good-oh, he did?" Owen's hazel eyes followed her as she stepped near the steps to the upstairs flat, her orange magnolia dress flapping in the silent breeze.

"Sherlock, your guest is here!" Mrs. Hudson shouted up the stairs. "I'm not telling you again, I'm _not_ your maid!"

She turned around to face Owen who stood there with a bemused look. She sighed as she shook her head. "I'm not his maid, I'm his landlady," she explained to him. She then introduced herself, "I'm Mrs. Hudson."

"Um, I'm Owen. Owen van Burton, nice to meet you, Mrs. Hudson," Owen coughed as he tried to speak with her. She tilted her head, "Are you alright, Mr. Van Burton, you look a little thin."

Owen was 6'5" and thin, probably too thin for his height if he bothered to check his weight every now and then.

"Um, I'm alright, Mr.-Mrs. Hudson," Owen smiled at her. It was the first time in a long time someone took notice of his health.

Mrs. Hudson raised her finger at him, "I know what'll cheer you up. Head up to his flat, when you come down, I'll have something for you."

Owen barely got a word out before she disappeared down the hall near the stairs, leaving him to walk up the stairs, alone.

Every step he took, he felt his heart bump against his rib cage. On the final step, it felt like his heart sore from the constant bumping and it hurt.

Taking deep breaths, Owen calmly knocked on the door and waited. Faintly, he heard a violin, what music it was playing, Owen was not talented in that department, so he assumed the usual suspects.

The violin continued and Owen remained patiently still, he turned his head and looked down the stairs. No one at the bottom of the stairs, not even Mrs. Hudson, it was empty. Turning back to the door, Owen chewed on his lip.

Hesitant to knock again, Owen closed his eyes and waited. As he waited, he heard shuffling noises going on inside the flat. They were faint, but it sound like something opened and closed. The shuffling noises continued until they stopped short of the door.

Opening one of his eyes, Owen narrowed his eye as he heard a sneeze, right in front of the door.

A scene straight out of a comedy show, the door suddenly swung open and the sudden appearance of Sherlock almost sent Owen down the stairs backwards had Sherlock not grabbed his black tie, preventing him from falling to his perpetuating death.

Struggling to right himself, Owen felt the tie tightening around his neck as Sherlock held it tightly, using his upper body strength to force Owen straight into his flat and squarely on the floor.

Owen's heart almost left out of his mouth as he laid on the ground, nose down. He kept his eyes firmly closed as he heard Sherlock close the door behind him. He then heard him.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock said, not even acknowledging his sudden appearance frightened Owen enough to almost fall backwards down the stairs.

Opening his eyes and looking around, Owen cringed as he slowly pushed himself up from the ground to see a pair of legs in front of him. "I had better days," Owen aspirated as he sees a hand lower to him.

"Don't dawdle," Sherlock firmly said.

Nodding, Owen reached for his hand and almost yelped when being forced on his feet, allowing him a proper view of the famed detective.

His skin had color compared to Owen, then again with the title as Great Detective, Sherlock presumably been everywhere his cases led. In addition, Owen was a shut-in at that point, he barely seen the sun since this all started.

Unlike his hair that was naturally smooth and darker shade of color, Sherlock's curly bed of hair was a slight lighter.

Sherlock had piercing light blue eyes, compared to Owen's hazel eyes; they could have been weapons essentially.

Owen noticed he was slightly taller, probably an inch. Unlike Owen, though, Sherlock looked lean, not healthy thin; he presumed being a detective gave him liberty in the kitchen.

He certainly dressed better than Owen did. Compared to Owen's white cotton shirt, black tie, and dress pants he found in a secondhand store, he was more professional in his coordinate black suit.

Overall, appearance wise, Sherlock was a better looker than Owen was. Though a part in Owen's brain joked that the only trump card Owen had to his name, was that he did not have a beak for a nose. Of course, Owen refrained from bringing it up in conversation.

"Um," Owen's mind tried desperately to hold decorum. "My name's O-Owen, we met online."

It failed, miserably. Yet it looked like Sherlock showed some sort of interest. It was not what Owen expected.

"Of course, I know who you are, idiot," Sherlock scorned him, like a child. He then refrained, before he quickly said, "I'm terribly sorry, but I've had a busy morning."

"Don't we all," muttered Owen as Sherlock turned around with his hands clasped together.

Sherlock strolled toward a sole chair in the middle of the flat and quickly swirled around to face Owen. Owen stood there, slowly looking around, like a deer caught in headlights.

"Take a seat," Sherlock ordered in a polite matter, pointing to the chair.

Owen nodded and walked slowly over to the chair. When he sat down, Sherlock spun around to face him. "Your story," he began as he looked sternly into Owen's eyes. "Where does it start?"

"Y-you read it, I thought," Owen sheepishly mustered. Sherlock shook his head in disagreement, his curly hair bouncing up and down.

"No," he pointed. "I've only read it online. Now that you're here, I want to hear from the top."

"But, I don't understand, what purpose does it serve?" Owen sulked in the chair as Sherlock overlooked him.

Sherlock explained it to him, at least what Owen assumed. "Anyone can write a story and say it's the truth, Mr. Van Burton. That is why you're here, to clarify, to add legibility where there is none," he gestured with his free hand as he grabbed for a plump chair and sat in it, one leg over the other.

Owen coughed as he felt Sherlock's eyes on him. He skirted in his seat a little before he sheepishly told Sherlock, "Well, I know it sounds silly, but I started feeling like I was being watched, followed even, six months ago."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes further on Owen. "No, Mr. Van Burton, _from_ the beginning," he insisted. Yet, Owen looked at him with confusion.

"What you mean, from the beginning, I'm telling you right now," Owen gestured with his hands. Sherlock continued to stare him down.

"Start with the migraines, Mr. Van Burton," Sherlock snapped at him.

Owen never brought it up in his post. He omitted it because he thought it did not add to the story and that it was silly to ascertain migraines being the harbinger of the corresponding events.

It did not matter, Sherlock wanted to hear it and he was not going to let Owen skip over it. Therefore, Owen entertained Sherlock with his woes.

"Alright, fine, it started six months ago," Owen mustered as he began from the top, the actual top, starting with his migraines. "At first, it started off as normal headaches, two ibuprofen and they were gone. It started to get worse, God, it was like bombs going off in my head, I almost couldn't make it to work."

Sherlock looked pleased with himself. A snake, even, with the way his lips curled back, hiding back a smile of content. Owen waited for him to coil up in the plump chair. He did not.

"So, migraines, how utterly trivial," Sherlock did not hold back when he talked, he even rolled his eyes at the notion. Owen, tempted to talk back, refrained and continued with his woes.

"Bloody hell, they hurt so bad I had to go to the clinic near my flat. The doctor said it was from the stress, nothing to worry. Gave me a prescription and the usual shit, "take two and call me in the morning" routine," Owen rubbed the side of his head.

Sherlock slowly nodded. "Was it the stress from working for shit pay at the bakery, Mr. Van Burton?" Owen nearly jumped out of his chair when Sherlock said it. He certainly did not say much about his work in the post, either. He did not want to give too many details in the event his meeting with Sherlock did not pan out.

"It-it wasn't shit pay," Owen aspirated again as he stared at Sherlock. He coughed and took a deep breath before he continued. "Um, it just wasn't enough, I'll admit. I got by, though, just had to adjust my-my budget."

"You barely ate during your job," Sherlock slapped him with that fact, not one trace of fake sympathy. He was genuine and Owen, for once, liked it.

"A-Anyway, as I was saying, I went to get my prescription afterward, but as I was walking down to the nearest pharmacy, I guess it might've been my nerves but it felt like I was being watched," Owen managed to say just before Sherlock stood up from his chair to walk around the flat.

Sherlock stopped at the fireplace and asked, "Have you felt it before?"

"No, that's the damnedest thing; I didn't start feeling it until my migraines started. That's why I've thought they were my nerves, uh, Mr. Holmes," Owen replied just as Sherlock walked back to the plump chair and lightly moved it slowly toward the fireplace.

"Have you felt it at all, today?" Sherlock continued as he barely paid attention to Owen.

Owen pondered before shaking his head. "Mr. Holmes, God as my only witness I've been feeling it since it all began," he said in earnest. It caught Sherlock's attention, just not enough for him to look over.

"Have you done anything as of recent that could've led up to this?" Sherlock left ambiguity as he finished his sentence. Owen felt like he was expecting something, what though, Owen was not sure.

"No, I've been just working, that's all," Owen shook his head as he scoffed. "I barely afford to pay rent, where was I going, the bloody opera house?"

"No, Mr. Van Burton, I refer to your drug uses," Sherlock's eyes pierced his. Owen cringed at the sight, worse he never told anyone about his drug uses.

It was 1999, a different time; Owen once had a nasty vice regarding cocaine. Spent much of his earnings on the vice alone, so much that his family gave him an ultimatum come time when everyone knew he was using. Either he gave up his vice or they will not accept him with open arms.

Owen made the attempt the best to his advantage at the time. He signed up for classes, checked himself into rehab, everything one needed to break a vice.

It worked, for a little while.

It was fourteen months before Owen lapsed. Not that Owen lost self-control, a tragic event occurred and having nothing to fall back on; Owen went to the Devil he knew.

He had a little sister, only four years younger than him. Her name was Jodie and she would be 34 in August. Tragically, her life cut short from a car accident caused by a tired driver.

It happened at night when Jodie and her girlfriends were returning home from their pub-crawl. Jodie, designated as the driver, had the right of way, when a lorry driver rammed them from the front.

An overworked lorry driver, attempting to reach his next stop, used caffeine pills and illegal drugs to keep him going well into the night. Unfortunately, he suddenly dozed off and swerved the lorry into the wrong lane, colliding into the sedan, killing Jodie instantly.

Her friends were fortunate; they only had minor injuries resulting from the crash, but none the same now they saw Jodie's lifeless body pulled from the wreckage.

Unable to cope from the loss, Owen lapsed and went back to the drug he tried so desperately to kick. Thus, it inadvertently caused his family to disown home, as they still held the threat over his head.

Eventually, Owen went back into the programs and came out sober once again. This time, he stayed sober and used coping skills he learned.

Sherlock noticed his discomfort and let up, allowing Owen to breath. Owen was thankful for it, more when Sherlock offered Kleenix. Taking a few sheets to dab his eyes, Owen went back to the story.

"No, I've been sober for years now. I've made amends with my dealers, paid my dues, there's no reason for them to turn up," Owen cleared his throat. "I don't even know what they're up to these days."

Sherlock listened and waited patiently until Owen finished his sentence. Once he did, Sherlock spoke again.

"If not drugs, then what about spurred lovers, have they threatened you?" Sherlock continued as he sat back in his plump chair.

Owen shook his head once more. He dated only four people, three women and one man. Yet it all fell apart. All of them ended even before it gotten to the point where "physical contact" would have come into play.

"No, I doubt they cared that much to come back," Owen rubbed the back of his head, his hair dried and bounced when he lightly touched it. "It was all a lost cause, anyway."

"Do you live with someone?" Sherlock settled in his plump chair.

Owen stifled his laughter and bit his tongue hard. It hurt, but it kept him from making a fool of himself in front of Sherlock. Owen replied with, "Only if you count a porcelain turtle as a "someone", Mr. Holmes. I doubt he invites the ladies home when I'm not around."

For once, Sherlock's expression changed. It went from mildly amused to downright confusion and curiosity. Apparently, this was the first time Sherlock heard of the notion of a porcelain turtle being a flat mate.

"Your flat mate is a porcelain turtle?" Sherlock had the look of bemusement stuck on his face as he trailed. This was definitely something he never encountered for in his entire career.

Owen nodded. He explained to Sherlock. "Sheila won't let me have pets and I'm not keen on flat mates. Frank was my compromise. I don't know, it's kind of therapeutic to talk to a turtle."

Sherlock's expression lightened further, to the point where Owen tried desperately hard not to outright laugh. It showed that the Great Detective has finally heard it all.

Sherlock finally admitted it too. "I'm going to be honest with you, Mr. Van Burton, this is the first time I've heard of this," he blinked several times.

Owen nodded. "I'll admit, it was odd talking to a porcelain turtle, but he's been the only reason I've stayed sane," he affirmed this for Sherlock.


	2. The Talking Turtle pt 2

"I don't judge, Mr. Van Burton, not my forte," Sherlock shook his head, his curly hair bobbing lightly. "Now, where were we?"

"Right, then, nose to the grind," Owen cleared his throat as he resumed his story. "Thought it couldn't get worse, first the migraines and then suddenly I'm being watched. Well, I came home one night and found my flat been broken into."

"What of the book stack, Mr. Van Burton?" Sherlock questioned him.

Owen crossed his arms as he thought back to his flat. He then said, "I had a stack of books near my Telly, I'll admit I don't keep it in any order. The only reason it tipped me off was because one of the books changed places."

"Yes, the "Accounting for Dummies" book, I recall you telling me about it being on the top but placed at the bottom when you looked," Sherlock acknowledged and Owen nodded in agreement.

Sherlock became interested as he settled in his chair. "Nothing was taken, no money, no valuables, anything of worth to you, Mr. Van Burton?" Owen heard him ask.

Owen shook his head as he replied. "That's what got me, I checked everywhere in my flat, counted what money I had, nothing gone!" Owen gestured as he watched Sherlock eye him. "The only thing that was missing was some M&M's I kept a bag or two in the cabinets. When I came home I found one of them opened."

Sherlock tilted his head as he asked Owen, "Only the brown colored M&M's remained no other colors?"

Owen shook his head as he leaned forward as he ran a hand through his matted hair. The confusion he felt when he found the brown M&Ms spread around the counter.

"Could Sheila been behind it, Mr. Van Burton?" Sherlock inquired as Owen leaned back in his chair.

Owen pondered and shrugged. Though Sheila never liked him, he doubted she was the culprit. For starters, she hated chocolate, never cared for sweets at all. Even she would not break laws for a few sweets and rearranging the books.

However when he approached her over the strange occurrence, the woman who generally yelled at the top of her lungs when someone's late with their rent became suddenly pale and even afraid.

"No, but now that I think about it, Mr. Holmes, I think she knows whose behind it, but she won't tell me. Hell, she practically begged me to stop talking about, even giving me 6 months rent free if I'd stop," Owen answered as Sherlock showed interested.

Sherlock listened and jolted down mental notes on what Owen told him. It was apparent, Owen was genuine about his case, more, he became afraid for his life.

Someone began to stalk him, broke into his flat, stole certain colored candies, and even rearranged his books. Unusual, very unusual, and it gained Sherlock's interest, as he had a rule of three. A case must have three things or more for Sherlock to become involved, this was one of them.

It intrigued him that Owen's landlord, Sheila, normally loud and cancerous, suddenly became frightened and pale when Owen tried asking her about the flat.

Someone spooked her, who had the power to spook a 67 year old who arm wrestled Navy soldiers in pubs for sport and even gained a following of men?

"Did you notice anyone peculiar, Mr. Van Burton?" Sherlock crossed his arms as Owen looked to the ground. Looking up to Sherlock, Owen shook his head. "No, no one peculiar, Mr. Holmes," he replied just as Sherlock tilted his head.

"What of your workplace, anything going on there?" Sherlock continued as he uncrossed his arms and scratched the back of his head.

With the migraines, the paranoia fear, and the flat broken into, Owen did not think it could not get any worse. It did, in the most bizarre way possible, with the theft of a hundred euros from Bruno's safe.

"One day after the break-in, I went into work. I know it's silly, but there was a car parked on the side of the road, across from the bakery," Owen trailed just before he found Sherlock in front of him.

"What year, what model, what make, tell me right now, Mr. Van Burton," Sherlock only said as Owen stared, frightened by the suddenness of Sherlock.

"Um, 1990 Black Mustang GT, I saw its plate when I was coming in, **70858** ," Owen struggled to say as he saw Sherlock towering over him, keenly interested in the details.

"Did you see the driver?" Sherlock continued.

Owen noticed the windows had a black tint to them, so dark he could not tell how who or how many were in the car. All he remembered was the sudden appearance of Bruno, angrily yelling at him about the theft from the safe.

"No, the windows were tinted, even then I didn't see much before Bruno came and yelled about the missing money. By then, the car pulled from the curb and disappeared up the road, took a left, and that was it," Owen flinched when he remembered how angry Bruno was about the missing money. However, Bruno never blamed Owen; instead, he blamed his sons, as they were the only ones at the bakery late at night and knew the safe combination.

He tasked Owen to count the money while he and his sons got into arguments. The sons claimed they were innocent and that they only took eyes off the safe for a minute. The arguments grew intense to the point Owen worried there might be a fight breaking out in the bakery. Fortunately, no fight broke out, but it led to the sons storming out the bakery, spitting on the sidewalk and cursing in their native tongue.

"Only a hundred euros that was it gone, nothing else taken from the safe. He had over ten thousand euros in that safe and only a hundred taken," Owen shook his head as he rubbed his hazel eyes. He heard Sherlock retreating back to his plump chair and sat back, the plump chair groaning as Sherlock settled.

"It's rather strange that only a hundred taken from the safe, why didn't Bruno report it to the police, Mr. Van Burton?" Sherlock wondered. Owen told him.

"Bruno believed that it wasn't a police matter. Said it was a family matter, that the police had no business in the family business, so I left it at that, Mr. Holmes," Owen responded.

Sherlock understood and rested a leg over the other. "So, suspicious car at your workplace and the theft, do you believe they were connected?" Sherlock inquired.

Owen thought about this himself. Odd how there was a theft and at an arm distance, a nearly twenty-six year old car parked nearby. The fact the car suddenly drove off the moment Bruno angrily walked up to Owen only fueled the paranoia.

He said to Sherlock, "Mr. Holmes, I swear on God, something is wrong. I don't know what it is or why it's happening to me, but I know it's bad."

"I believe you, Mr. Van Burton, but I need to know more about your story. When you got home the next morning, why didn't you report the break-in?" Sherlock eyed him.

Owen layback in his chair as he eyes moved away from Sherlock. In truth, Owen tried reporting it, but because there was nothing of value stolen, the police told him to leave. Only if something as significant as a school ring taken would they lift their fingers. Since Owen had no credible witnesses, Sheila would not help him, he had no one to back up his claims. Thus his attempts at alerting the proper authorities failed and a catalyst for seeking out Sherlock.

"I tried, honestly, but they wouldn't help me," Owen summed his lackluster experience with the police. "I decided if they wouldn't help me, I'd find out myself."

Owen woke up early one day and headed out to the mart where he bought two large bags of M&M's. Multicolored sweets poured into a large bowl Owen found on sale at the mart, placed squarely in the center of the living room table.

Mixing up the stack of books, Owen placed Frank on top of them. Heavy but sturdy, the porcelain turtle took its spot on the stack as Owen took a photo of it and the bowl of M&M's with his phone as references.

"Remember, Frank, play dead if they come back, no heroism from you," Owen warned the porcelain turtle as he wagged his finger.

When Owen came back from work, the stack of books changed orders, Frank was on top of the books, and all that remained in the bowl of M&M's was the brown colored ones, neatly lined against the bowl.

"It was maddening, Mr. Holmes, coming home to finding it all like that. I'll admit, I entertained it as ghosts, but I know what I seen," Owen frowned as he placed a leg over the other. "Even then, that was rubbish evidence. The police would've said I done it and stop wasting their time, if they don't fine me first."

"Is there anything else missing from your flat during that time, Mr. Van Burton?" Sherlock gestured as Owen blinked several times.

Owen replied with, "No, I don't know what's going on, Mr. Holmes. Nothing goes missing but the M&M's, sans the brown ones."

Sherlock, perturbed, wondered what the end goal could have been to justify the odd break-ins. The fact nothing of value went missing each time, only piqued Sherlock's interest further.

"Mr. Van Burton, your flat was broken-in a second time, what did you do then?" Sherlock gestured again before rubbing his chin, pondering as Owen spoke.

"I couldn't ask Sheila. Police would not believe me, again. So, I went with the only logical option I could think of, security cameras," Owen groaned as he remembered how much it cost to buy four cameras, a receiver with 2TB of storage, and access to a special app on his mobile. Over 200 euros, Owen had to buy it from a speciality shop, there they put the actual box in a plain brown one so no one pried if they seen the manufacturer's logo. Returning home with the security cameras, Owen began setting each camera in an area of the flat where the activities occurred.

The first camera went in the kitchen, on top of the cabinet with the bags of M&M's, pointing down where anyone reaching into the cabinet would've been without being seen. Owen tested it several times before he found a position with the clearer picture.

The second camera, Owen cleverly hid it under his couch. The milky colored frills that hung over the floor provided extra cover for the camera and with some fiddling, the camera captured legs of anyone who walked in front of it.

The third camera, hidden on the bookshelf near the window, behind some knickknacks, ensured to catch an unobscured look of whoever opened the door without them noticing the camera. Owen moved things around to better hide the camera, unless someone wanted old action figures from the '80s that suffered at the hands of a child, they were not coming near the bookshelf. Even then, they were not getting much from an old Voltron figure that been run over by a bicycle and a He-Man that drowned in a creek.

The fourth and final camera Owen had trouble finding a spot. His flat, being small as it was, had not much furniture or ways for him to hide it. Eventually, Owen found an unconventional spot for the camera, it took time to wire the flat to avoid anyone from noticing or Sheila getting angry, but the camera set up nicely in Owen's bedroom. Hidden amongst a shelf of rugby trophies, no one would suspect a thing.

Owen placed the receiver on top of his DVD player. To anyone, it would look nothing more than a knock-off Onkyo receiver would, but to Owen, it was the only way to find proof.

It took an agonizing three hours, with Owen taking breaks in between, before the setup was complete and the app on his mobile worked. Owen found creative ways to hide the boxes and the manual for the security cameras, but in the end, it was worth the stomach-churning amount he paid for the cameras.

Now, he hoped to catch the perp and finally have the proof he needed for the police to intervene. Or so he thought as he began telling Sherlock.

"I spent a fortune of my money, but in the end my pockets were lighter than lint and I have _no_ proof of what's going on," Owen rubbed his nose as he groaned, thinking about the horrible realization that overcame him when he found out what happened next.

Feeling that he would have his answers, Owen went to bed happy and when he went to work, he smiled a lot. The migraines came and went, but it did not stop Owen from thinking about what he will say to the police, how he will tell them he was, right and they were wrong. They had to help him now; the proof was there in front of him.

Unfortunately, for Owen, it did not turn out the way he would hope. Returning home after a long day of sorting receipts and order forms, Owen stood in the doorway aghast. The book stack changed yet again, Frank sitting on top of the books facing the door.

"I almost lost my bowels, Mr. Holmes, I was sick to my stomach looking at the scene," Owen bemoaned the horror he witnessed seeing Frank staring at him with its beady eyes, almost trying to tell him what happened.

Owen shook his head in disapproval as he then said, "I almost broke my nose running around my flat. It was a sight I never thought I see, Mr. Holmes, I thought this would solve my problems, but it didn't."

Owen nearly tripped as he ran into the kitchen and found that the small bags of M&M's were opened, all the brown colored M&M's being the only ones sprawled on the counter.

"What of the cameras, anything on them?" Sherlock watched as Owen's body language lampooned into sadness and bitterness. Sherlock deduced he did not find the answers he sought and found more questions, ones that haunt him so.

Owen slowly nodded, frowning as he explained to Sherlock how he checked the camera footage to find that his once foolproof plan failed. "I went to my mobile and searched the video logs. Gone on the receiver and looked, they were the same, all of them," Owen exhaled as he rubbed his chin, the feeling of anger and dismay washed over him as he attempted to remain calm for Sherlock.

Rushing to check the camera footage, Owen watched the earlier footage. He continued until he stopped at the part where he left for work with a smile to almost two hours later where nothing happened. The fourth hour into the footage, Owen noticed his doorknob turning slightly and before it opened the cameras suddenly went offline for forty minutes.

After forty minutes, the cameras came back online and the book stack changed. Owen shifted through each of the cameras, looking through the footages. The counter in the kitchen cleaned off and when the cameras turned on again, bags of M&Ms sat opened with brown M&M's scattered.

"Very peculiar turn of events, Mr. Van Burton, have you checked the cameras for defects?" Sherlock scratched at his chin. This case kept getting interesting and Sherlock knew for the sake of Owen, he has to take the case. Genuinely scared and frustrated, Owen deserved answers, and if security cameras will not give him answers, Sherlock will.

Owen slowly nodded his head. "I had them checked out when I had a day off, they were fine," Owen sighed heavily as he ran a hand through his hair, thinking about the pit in his stomach grow ten times the size as he knew he had nothing to show for his work. No footage of the culprit and at this point, Owen was sure the culprit enjoyed mocking him.

Owen even asked Frank if he seen anyone, but he claimed he did not and that Owen needed to calm down. Some advice from a turtle, but Owen gave him some credit, the turtle played dead and no one the wiser.

Sherlock pondered before asking, "Has this happened since?"

"Oh, it has, Mr. Holmes, I've given up filming the damned culprit. No point really now I work out of my flat," Owen rubbed his eyes before he lowered his hand. "I'm likely to see an UFO at this point; it's that time of the year anyhow."

"Mr. Van Owen, I believe your story. Something is a afoot and it is my duty as a detective to find the source of your troubles. I will gladly take the case and solve it in a timely matter," Sherlock stood up and stretched, popping his neck.

Owen stood up, teary eyed almost, as he shook Sherlock's hand. "Thank you, thank you so much, Mr. Holmes!" he stifled laughter tucked away in his voice as he almost hugged Sherlock. He stopped when he remembered something very important. "Um, Mr. Holmes, I hate to sound boorish, but I'm rather light this month. How much would you say covers the basic and how much would it take to pay you back entirely?"

Sherlock waved his hand as he said to Owen, "I'll gladly take this case for free, it's very interesting, indeed."

Owen's heart swelled with joy as he listened, but felt that he had to pay Sherlock back somehow. After all, it was not every day he meets someone willing to deal with his case and hear him out. Therefore, Owen compromised with an offer instead. "Um, Mr. Holmes, I don't suppose you have an accountant overseeing your finances, do you?" Owen sheepishly asked him.

Sherlock shook his head, almost laughing as he straightened out his jacket before saying, "Why would I need an accountant?"

"Well, Mr. Holmes, it's only fair that I give something in return for your help. If not money, then how about I oversee the tax forms and the expense?" Owen offered him. Owen watched as Sherlock tilted his head at the idea, pondering silently.

Sherlock often received gifts by those thankful for his service when he did not take money for it. An accountant offering his services in return, slightly new idea but Sherlock liked it better than a fruit cake from last December's major case. In addition, both John and Sherlock can agree on one thing: filing forms and the like is extremely tedious and irritating.

"You have yourself a deal, Mr. Van Burton," Sherlock finally said as he led Owen to the door.

Owen smiled, a rare sight, as Sherlock opened the door for him. "Now remember Mr. Van Burton. I will keep touch with you. If anything happens, text me," Sherlock said to him as he passed through the doorway.

Owen stopped and tilted his head, "I haven't even given you my number yet."

Sherlock shook his head. "You don't have to, I already took the liberty of adding it. Carry on, Mr. Van Burton, if I need anything from you, I'll text," he only said.

Owen watched as Sherlock closed the door and resumed going down the stairs. All he could think about right now was that someone believed him. All Owen hoped for was that in the end, this nightmare would be over. Once everything went back to normal, Owen can move on with his life without having to look behind his shoulder every time he stepped out of the flat for something.

Coming down the stairs, Owen saw Mrs. Hudson again with a brown bag wrapped and tapped down in her hands. "These ought to cheer you up," she said to him as she gave him the bag. Owen knew the smell from anywhere, fresh baked cookies, chocolate chip and oatmeal with butterscotch bits.

Owen smiled at her as he graciously held the bag close to his chest. "Thank you very much, Mrs. Hudson," he managed to say to her just before Sherlock suddenly opened the door again. He shouted down the stairs for Owen to hear, "Send me all the footage from those days!"

Owen looked up the stairs to see Sherlock closing the door. Turning his head back to Mrs. Hudson, she merely shrugged, like she seen this happen several times, almost enough that is normal for her. She did not lose her genuine concern however. As she led Owen to the door, she pointed at the bag.

"Eat those cookies, they'll make you feel better," she said to Owen. Owen nodded as he thanked her profusely.

No man or child would dare refuse free cookies, especially from a nice woman like Mrs. Hudson.

Owen took a cab back to his flat and upon returning home, he happily ate the cookies Mrs. Hudson baked. Frank wanted some, but because porcelain turtles lacked stomachs and taste buds, it would be waste of a perfectly good cookie.

Owen topped the cookies off with some milk before he checked his phone. There at the top of the queue of text messages from days past, Sherlock reminding him about the footage. Owen sent all the security footage when the break-ins occurred, the footage included time stamps and to help Sherlock more Owen sent him a copy of his schedule when he worked with Bruno.

Sherlock did not say anything else or give indication he acknowledged the texts. Owen assumed he was a busy man and would get back to him when he had time. While Owen waited, he began to work on more tax forms for a firm, the firm believes they owed far more money they are inclined and wanted Owen's opinion on the matter. Eventually, from the laborious "carry the two" Owen fell asleep at his computer with his headphones over his ears and a song from the band Red Children played.

* * *

"Sweet salivation upon your soul,

Hidden in the wretched hallow,

Innocent voices follow you as you dance a wicked dance.

Dandy thoughts turn to war and anger.

Danger is your fear and silver is your tears.

Sitting upon her porcelain throne,

Made of ashes from human bones,

Queen Annalise Merovingian makes you dance your soul away.

"Seek all who heed my call!"

Dreams become your nightmares,

Humanity and culture are all you despise,

Family and friends become the enemies."


	3. Stiff As Porcelain

Owen snored softly as he slept on the desk. The music from his headphones played softly as the playlists switched to the morning playlist. As Owen snored, he felt his desk vibrate, slowly his eyes opened and slowly moved up to the monitor, on it the music player sat in the middle of the screen. His eyes groggily moved to his phone, the light at the top did not blink, no message or calls.

Slowly closing his eyes again, Owen began to snore again until he felt the desk vibrate once more. Opening his eyes again, Owen slowly blinked as he looked around the flat. As he felt the desk vibrate, Owen pulled off his headphones and heard knocking at his door.

Yawning loudly, Owen stood up from his desk as he stretched out his arms and back, popping joints. He hobbled toward the door as he rubbed his eyes.

"What is it now, Sheila?" Owen mumbled as he opened the door without a second thought. Sheila often came by his flat without warning, often to complain about what she perceived as nuisance. As he stood there, his mind struggled to understand the situation. It did not see a short woman with platinum blonde puffy hair with sunken dark eyes that pierced Owen's hazel eyes.

It saw a rather tall, thin man, wearing a navy blue overcoat and scarf. As his mind struggled to understand the discrepancy, Owen heard an abrupt, "Good morning, Mr. Van Burton."

Too polite for Sheila and even Sheila did not have that deep of voice, Owen noticed as he stood there rubbing his eyes. Blinking several times, Owen leaned forward as his vision came together to formulate the answer to his mind's question.

Standing there with his arms behind his back, Sherlock Holmes, who eyed back with curiosity.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes, I'm sorry, I just got up," Owen yawned as he allowed Sherlock inside his flat.

Sherlock stepped through the doorway and glanced around the flat.

Owen hobbled to his desk and checked his phone, no texts or even a call from Sherlock. He just showed up at Owen's flat with so much a word.

As Owen rested his phone on the desk, Sherlock already gone into the kitchen and opened cabinets.

"I stopped buying those candies a while ago," Owen, mentioned as he hobbled toward the kitchen. "No reason since I'm always here. Anyway, the doctor says I gotta cut down on the sweets."

Sherlock stuck his head through the archway and said, "Has anyone come to the flat after you quit your job with Bruno?"

"No, ever since I began working on the Internet, it's been pretty quiet," Owen said to him as he came out of the kitchen and continued looking around the flat.

Owen, confused, sheepishly asked Sherlock as he lifted the first book off the stack. "What are you looking for, Mr. Holmes?" Owen saw him spun around as he attempted to visualize the flat.

"Not very big a flat, is it?" Sherlock ignored Owen's question. Owen tilted his head. He was not sure what Sherlock was getting at, but he answered anyway for the sake of being.

"It's the cheapest one I found," Owen shrugged as Sherlock knelt beside the couch and looked under it.

The flat, though might not look it, was very small. Owen's bedroom, small like a closet with enough space for a tiny dresser with three drawers and the stuffed closet of jeans and coats. The bathroom in the short hallway to his bedroom only had space for a standing shower, toilet, and the sink. Linen and towels stowed away under the sink, the shampoo and soap in the wall cabinet above the toilet, and toothpaste and oral products in the medicine cabinet above the sink. The kitchen, somewhat spacious compared to the bathroom and bedroom, had only enough room for the essentials. The fridge small and stout, capable of only holding so much food, there were two cabinets and one counter attached to the sink. The living room had enough room for the computer and television set up, the couch, and the bookshelf.

"Small flat, rather odd someone go the trouble to break in. Not very bright, they are, too small a space, they'd leave finger prints all over the place," Sherlock noted as he gently picked up Frank and turned him on his back. "You said Frank moved positions as well?"

Owen nodded as he watched Sherlock narrow his eyes on the porcelain turtle, even going far as shaking it gently. As Sherlock did, Owen felt pins and needles in his head, painful enough that he placed both hands on his head, cringing as he felt his feet buckle.

Sherlock took notice, sat the turtle down, and immediately went to Owen's aid. "M-my medicine, it's in the cabinet," Owen groggily mustered as Sherlock led him to his couch before he went down the hall.

Owen rested his head against the headrest as he stared at the ceiling as it shook in his vision. He heard his pill bottle open and Sherlock handed him his dosage of two pills.

Swallowing the two pills while drinking water provided by Sherlock, Owen groaned as he rubbed his brow, blinking slowly as he felt the pills hit his stomach. Sherlock, concerned, asked him, "How often does this happen?"

"It comes and goes," Owen summed as he closed his eyes, the nerves in his head pulsating. "Sometimes they're small enough I don't even notice, but often, they're the bane of my existence."

While Owen sat in the couch, Sherlock continued to search around his flat. No one breaks in just for sweets and reorganizing books, something drew them here, and what that was, Sherlock wondered.

Owen, as he described himself, never dated or held long-term relationships, he willingly chose a life of solitude with a porcelain turtle. He stopped using drugs and from what Sherlock could tell, dealers would have taken more than just specifically colored candies if they came around.

Sheila, a cancerous woman, the polar opposite of Mrs. Hudson, she would not bother to break into her tenant's flat. She also knew something, a detail that she hid from Owen; using the allure of having six months, rent free Sheila made sure Owen would take the deal. She knew he often had little money, barely enough to pay rent.

Sherlock decided to pay the woman a visit, he happened to be a thorough detective and he had to speak with everyone involved in a case.

He looked at Owen, the medicine took effect and he slowly turned his head to face Sherlock. Sherlock then asked Owen, "Is Sheila about, she watching her shows or going about in pubs?"

"Why you want to talk to her?" Owen groggily looked at him, confused. "Please, I don't want her angry with me."

"She won't know a thing, Mr. Van Burton. I assure you, I won't lead her back to you," Sherlock gave a smile. Owen stared at him and as much as it pained him, metaphorically and physically, Sherlock had better luck finding out things than him. Therefore, he asked, "Is it Thursday?"

"It is, Mr. Van Burton," Sherlock answered and as he did Owen pushed off the couch and hobbled around the table toward his desk.

"She's downstairs in her flat watching that show of hers, forgot what it was, but I think it's a soap," Owen mustered as he sat down at his desk and tapped on his mouse to wake the computer from sleep. "You might want to be careful, she's been known to throw things at her Telly when something happens and she doesn't like it."

Sherlock stepped out of Owen's flat and walked toward the flight of stairs. Walking down, he turned a left and continued until he found next set of doors at the end of the hall. At the very end, the door to Sheila's flat. On the right of it, the door to the outside and easy access to the rubbish bins. The rubbish bins situated right near the gates and the rubbish men came every Thursday morning, naturally, Sheila kept the gates unlocked when it's Thursday.

On the left of Sheila's door, a closet filled with cleaning supplies, nothing special, Sheila liked to keep her building clean. She also liked to stock up on supplies during sales at the local mart, she gets coupons in the mail and often clips them with her friends at the diner.

Approaching Sheila's door, Sherlock turned his head toward the door on the right. Two doors, one the storm door and the actual door, both had their own set of locks, no one could have picked their way through both locks without Sheila knowing.

Turning back to Sheila's door, Sherlock leaned forward and listened to Sheila angrily yelling at the Telly. Her favorite character been charged with murder and her lover refused to help her prove her innocence. Then it happens that her lover been having an unprofessional relationship with the detective inspector, thus impeding her quest. A typical plot for a boring show that been on for decades now, even Sherlock's own parents and grandparents seen the show in its previous incarnations. The only times Sherlock ever seen the show was when he and Mycroft spent time with their grandparents during breaks. Nan loved it, grandad shared the same opinions held by the young brothers and so they spent time outside the countryside house to get away from the Telly.

Having enough of Sheila cursing at the Telly, Sherlock proceeded to knock on the door. He done this several times, Sheila did not notice it the first several times, until he heard shuffling toward the door.

"Who's knocking at this ungodly hour?" Sheila's voice muffled through the oak door. Sheila stood on her toes as she peeped through the eyehole. She became frightened at the sight of Sherlock.

"Go away, off with you, haven't you done enough?" Sheila scorned him. "I want no trouble, don't you dare come in here!"

Sherlock tilted his head at the situation. He shook his head as he said to Sheila, "I want no trouble, ma'am. I found a key; I think it belongs to you."

Sherlock dug around his pocket and pulled out a key he gotten from Owen, not that Owen knew about it. Once Sheila saw Owen's name engraved in the key, she will give it back to him.

Sherlock waited with it in his palm as Sheila moved around in her flat.

"Hold it up for me to see," Sheila ordered him and he complied by raising it to the eyehole. Studying it, Sheila then asked him, "Where'd you find it?"

"A man gave it to me," Sherlock lied as he stood there. "He didn't know where it belonged; I think he found it outside the gates."

"What did he look like?" Sheila sounded rather suspicious, like she been through this before, and was not taking her chance a second time.

Sherlock, thinking on his feet, quickly referenced to a poster he saw in Owen's flat, near his desk. "He had greased hair, it was combed back. Uh, a dark suit, and he wore sunglasses," Sherlock exaggerated, putting on a good show.

Sherlock was used to his ploys working, but he found this one worked a little too well. It worked too well that Sheila immediately opened the door partly for her to see him properly.

Showing her the key, Sherlock noticed she flinched. There was fear in those sunken eyes, something spooked her and Sherlock believed it tied to the break-ins.

"He, uh, didn't tell me much, but he said it might've come from here," Sherlock lightly chuckled.

Sheila looked past Sherlock; once she confirmed no one else, there she promptly took the key from Sherlock. Sheila then said, "Alright, bugger off, you done your job."

Sherlock could not get a word in before Sheila immediately closed the door on him, locking it up, and putting something in front of it.

Unable to get anything more from Sheila, Sherlock walked up the stairs, returning to Owen. Owen finished forms for another website when Sherlock came through the door.

"Did she give you a mouth full?" Owen asked as he turned his head slightly. He watched Sherlock shake his head as he sat down on the couch with a leg over the other and his arms crossed.

Confused, Owen then asked another question. "Well, what she say, then?" He blinked as Sherlock leaned back in the couch, concentrating.

Sherlock did not say anything; in fact, he ignored Owen entirely, completely absorbed in his thoughts notice Owen. He sat on the couch concentrating, thinking about something. Whatever he learned from Sheila, Owen could not tell and Sherlock was not going to tell him right off the bat.

When Sherlock finally decided to say something, it was not what Owen expected. "Fancy breakfast, Mr. Van Burton, I'm well-known at a café," Sherlock suddenly offered.

Owen, baffled, stared at him. He was not sure if Sherlock was serious or not, but to his surprise, Sherlock was serious, insistent even. However, as Owen thought about it, he did not have much to eat in the kitchen; he did not even have a plan for breakfast.

Suppose he could go for some breakfast, actual breakfast instead of the instant meals and the sweets.

After all, how often does this sort of thing happen?

"Er, only if you're sure about it, Mr. Holmes," Owen finally said as Sherlock snooped around his flat some more. Stopping at the bookshelf, Sherlock turned around and smiled. The smile, odd as it looked, made Owen comfortable and as he stood up from his desk, he shuffled toward the hallway.

"Give me a minute to throw on some things," Owen said as he disappeared into his bedroom, grabbed some quick clothes together before disappearing into the bathroom.

He later emerged to find Sherlock sitting at his desk, looking through files and documents.

"What are you doing?" Owen stood there, baffled as he watched Sherlock looking through copies of forms and letters Owen kept records of.

Sherlock, bored, turned his head to Owen, "You were taking too long."

"Those were encrypted," Owen, pointed this out to Sherlock, he shrugged instead. Sherlock figured out all the folders' passwords without so much a guess and it both amazed and frightened Owen.

Owen did not know how to react to Sherlock seemingly breaking his walls of security, but it dawned on him that it would be uncharacteristic for the detective to figure out security protocols. Even if they were equations, geographical locations, and old action stars from the '80s, Sherlock found them out.

It also dawned on Owen, if Sherlock had no trouble cracking passwords, who else could?

Before Owen can say anything else, Sherlock told him that they were meeting someone at the café, a friend of Sherlock's.

Owen cleared his throat as he pointed at the computer. "Could you at least lock up my things before we go, I have things on there I rather not get out," Owen asked Sherlock. Sherlock nodded and did just that, afterward he stood up from the desk and pushed in the chair.

Grabbing for his things, Owen walked out the door first and as he did, Sheila greeted him. She held in her wrinkly hands the key she gotten from Sherlock, a look on her face. "Would you be careful where you leave things?" She scorned at him as she shoved the key into his hand.

Owen looked at it and recognized it as his; it went to the front door of the flat. Confused, Owen looked up at Sheila. "Where'd you find it?" He asked her. "I swear, I didn't lose it, Sheila."

Sheila shook her head, her thinning hair bobbed slightly. She pointed at him and sternly said, "No trouble, hear, I want no trouble!"

She immediately turned and went down the stairs, leaving Owen confused as he held the key. Behind him, Sherlock exited the flat and Owen turned to him. "This is the key to the front, how'd it end up with Sheila?" He asked Sherlock.

Sherlock shrugged and passed him. He would not answer Owen's question, not that Owen was surprised at this point. Owen turned around and locked the door to his flat before he joined Sherlock outside where a cab waited for them.

Entering the cab, Sherlock instructed the cabby to take them to Café Celine. Owen settled in his seat as the cab pulled from the curb and blended with the traffic. Turning his head to Sherlock, Owen asked him. "What do you think is going on?" He gestured. Sherlock kept looking out the window, looking at every car.

When Sherlock did not answer him, Owen realized finally that Sherlock would only answer when it suited him. For now, Owen only hoped that Sherlock would tell him when it mattered.

Arriving at the café, Sherlock paid the cabby and led Owen inside.

A café based around flowers, the first thing to greet them were paintings of various flowers and flora. Fake flowers in planters hung from the ceiling as several pots rested in corners of the café. Sherlock led Owen through the large doorway and at the furthest table in the back, a blond man looked straight at them.

Approaching the table, Sherlock exchanged greetings with the man. "Good morning, John," Sherlock first said. John then mustered, "Good morning, Sherlock."

"John, this is Owen van Burton, he is the one I told you about," Sherlock introduced John to Owen. John gave a slight bow as Owen done the same.

Taking their seats, Owen looked at John. "I don't think I've heard about you, er, John," Owen mentioned to him. John gave a knowingly look and said, "I'm supposed to be his assistant, but often I've become his errand boy."

"Have you found anything, yet?" Sherlock interrupted them. John turned to Sherlock and shook his head.

"Nothing, I've looked three times, there is none with those numbers," John explained to Sherlock. "You sure you gave me the right ones?"

"I'm always sure, John," Sherlock looked mildly annoyed John questioned his ability memorize things.

Owen, a fish out of water, merely sat quietly. Until Sherlock brought him into his and John's conversations, without a single social cue to follow or use as reference.

"Mr. Van Burton, have you seen it recently, maybe when you poked your head out the window or when you're walking to the mart?" Sherlock asked him.

Owen shook his head. "No, I've not seen it. I didn't even see when I quit my job with Bruno," he told Sherlock.

John looked at Sherlock. "You could always ask him, he has better resources than we do," he suggested. Sherlock scowled at the idea and shook his head.

"I'm not asking him, John," Sherlock asserted.

Owen looked at them, confused.

Who were they talking about, why was Sherlock hesitant in asking for his help?

Owen learned by listening to Sherlock and John squabble about it.

"Of course you won't ask him, you'd have to be on the side of a building before you ask for his help," John shook his head in disappointment. "World could come to an end tomorrow and you'd still not ask for his help, it'd be a cold day in hell if that ever happens."

"We can do this by ourselves, John," Sherlock scowled at him. Clearly, Sherlock would rather dangle off the side of the building than ask help.

Owen, befuddled, raised his hand lightly and asked, "Excuse me, it's not my place, but who are we talking about?"

"A stone or two overweight, loves to badger, he's not a concern, Mr. Van Burton," Sherlock only said, it became evident he will not tell Owen anything more than that. Therefore, Owen turned his head to John who only shook his head, subtly warning him to stop while he was ahead. Owen opted to take the advice.

A waitress came over to them with a pen and notepad, smiling at them. "Can I start you gentlemen off with drinks?" She asked them.

John nodded and asked for tea, earl gray. Sherlock opted for coffee, black. Before Owen could say his decision, Sherlock answered for him.

"He'll take the same, coffee, black," Sherlock told the waitress who wrote everything down.

She nodded, her red braid bobbing up and down. Then she asked what they wanted. John went with Belgian waffles, asking for a side of syrup. Sherlock asked for eggs Benedict and gave the waitress Owen's order, even before he decided what he'd ask.

"He'll take steak and eggs, steak medium-well and eggs sunny side up. He'll want some bacon on the side, crispy," Sherlock gave the answer to the waitress who wrote everything down. Once she did, she looked at the men and smiled.

"Drinks coming right up," she said to them as she turned and disappeared.

Owen sat there, baffled, Sherlock gave the waitress all the answers he'd probably give if he had the means to afford the meal.

"I wasn't going to order steak and eggs," Owen shook his head, his black thin bangs stuck to his forehead.

"I saw the state of your kitchen, Mr. Van Burton, a little substance won't kill you," Sherlock scorned him "After all, it'd be a horrible thing of me if I let you order only toast and jam."

"Mighty generous coming for you," John commented on the matter.

Owen shook his head; he did not expect Sherlock willingly ordering him something expensive as steak and eggs. Sherlock was right, Owen would have ordered toast and jam, trying to eat light but not insult Sherlock. Clearly, not ordering what he originally wanted insulted Sherlock anyway.

"Nonsense, John, I've treated you to meals, have I not?" Sherlock pointed at him.

John only rolled his eyes. "How many times have you run off when they bring the check?" John narrowed his eyes on Sherlock.

Owen, uncomfortable, averted their gazes and looked elsewhere, tuning them out. He glanced out the window and watched people walk past the café. Mostly it was businesspersons and those of the elite, but there were others.

Owen's hazel eyes moved around and stopped when he noticed someone in the alleyway outside the café. Very faint, Owen barely saw the outline. As people passed the alleyway, none noticed the person. When the wind picked up Owen saw the shadowed coattail flutter lightly, but did not see anything more.

His eyes snapped back when Sherlock snapped his fingers in front of him.

"Mr. Van Burton, are you alright?" John asked, concerned.

Owen blinked several times before he nodded. "I'm fine," he mustered.

Sherlock eyed him; however, it looked like he did not catch on what Owen saw, so Owen took what he could.

The waitress returned with their drinks and carefully handed them out. Sherlock received his coffee first, John his tea, and Owen received his coffee last, the waitress then said within minutes their orders will arrive to their table.

As she left, Owen stared at the men. He never been the one for Noire or ever bothered with the crime genre in general, he didn't even know what to do next.

"So, what is the plan, if I can ask, Mr. Holmes?" Owen sheepishly asked him.

Sherlock replied while adding three spoonfuls of sugar to his coffee. "Mr. Van Burton, it is imperative we recreate your situation, such as it is, we must return to Bruno's bakery," he stated as he stirred the coffee, the spoon clanking against the sides of the mug.

John turned to Sherlock and asked him, "How are you going to ask this Bruno about Mr. Van Burton's predicament?"

"Stolen money, gone from the safe and no one's come forward, a good place to start than anything, John. I also would like to see where the vehicle might've gone," Sherlock raised the mug to his lips before he sipped from it.

Owen raised his brow at the thought. Though he left the bakery with no ill will from Bruno, he might not like the idea of Sherlock appearing at the bakery asking questions. Owen feared Bruno might get angry with Sherlock asking about the stolen money.

"It's been six months, I doubt he'll remember anything," Owen blurted at Sherlock. Catching his breath and blinking, Owen sheepishly looked at Sherlock.

Sherlock rested the mug on the table and shook his head. "I believe there is a connection, Mr. Van Burton, you said you saw a suspicious vehicle outside the bakery just as Bruno told you of the stolen money. Quite suspicious, considering the peculiar plates the vehicle had and the tinted windows, I must check every stone, Mr. Van Burton," Sherlock explained his reason to Owen just as the waitress arrived with their orders.

She sat each plate down for them and refilled their respected drinks. "If you need anything else, don't hesitant in asking," the waitress humbly said before she turned and walked away, holding the tray with the coffee pot and the kettle of earl gray.

Owen smells the plate and his stomach growled in anticipation. It would have been his real meal in months and Owen wanted every morsel of the steak.

"Now Mr. Van Burton, when we arrive, I must ask you questions. I understand it's been six months, but perhaps there is something more to your story than you realized," Sherlock picked up a fork and stabbed at the food on his plate.

Owen slowly nodded his head, his bangs bobbing up and down his face. "Of course, Mr. Holmes, but if John can't find the vehicle, what says you can?" He honestly said to him. He believed Sherlock could find the vehicle and its owners, but at the same time he felt doubt cast over him. He worried that it can go either way; either Sherlock can or cannot find the vehicle.

Sherlock snorted at the thought as he picked up a bit of the eggs Benedict. "Now, now, it's just begun, Mr. Van Burton, like all good things we must wait for them," he smiled at Owen before he took a bite of food.

"You're thinking they'll come back?" John pointed at Sherlock with his fork with a piece of Belgian waffle at the end, slathered in syrup.

Sherlock slowly nodded as he chewed. He finished and said, "I believe there is something afoot, John, and it is our duty to our client that we find out what that is and why it is so."

"I don't understand, Mr. Holmes, why would they come back?" Owen tilted his head in confusion. It crossed his mind that perhaps there indeed something else to his predicament than he realized, but why would it involve repeat visits to a bakery that he no longer worked at?

Sherlock gave a toothy smile, something that caught both John and Owen's attention. He then asked them, "Why would one take a hundred euros, but nothing else?"

"If there was ten thousand euros in that safe as you've told me, taking it all would be stupid," John answered.

Owen agreed, taking that much money from the safe would anger Bruno to the point of taking justice into his hands and not something people would want to see. Yet, Sherlock raised a point, why take only that amount and nothing else?

"You think it was intentional," Owen gave his answer. "It wasn't about the money, was it?"

"No, Mr. Van Burton, it was not," Sherlock replied with as he raised his mug to his lips.


	4. Who's That Man

Breakfast with Sherlock Holmes and John Watson was a strange one, the two had history with each other and it became apparent as Owen watched them that they were distinctly polar opposites that somehow worked together just fine. They mentioned old cases they worked on time to time; John even asked Owen once or twice if he even heard of them. Owen never bothered with the news, it was always dreary and nothing about it changed other than the topical discussion regarding this and that.

Sherlock took Owen's naivety as insult; it seemed that Sherlock thought his work known by even the dimmest of dim. John seemed surprised as well, but understood better than Sherlock did.

Sherlock, baffled, said to Owen, "You've _never_ heard of the Pink Lady?"

"No, Mr. Holmes, I've not," Owen shook his head.

Sherlock clasped his hands together as he stared at Owen. Owen uncomfortably glanced around the café. He stopped at John who tilted his head, confused.

"It was _in_ the papers, Mr. Van Burton," Sherlock eyed him from across the table. "They've spoken about it on the radio, the television."

Owen drew a blank in his mind and shrugged his bony shoulders. "I don't bother with the news, Mr. Holmes, too dreary or too much yelling," he genuinely said to Sherlock.

Sherlock turned to John who looked back. Sherlock turned to Owen, "So, you've never heard of our work, at all?"

"Nope," Owen only said.

Sherlock raised his fork at Owen and wagged it at him, like an adult scolding a child for doing something wrong. He turned to John and told him, "When we return to my flat, show him our work."

"Sherlock, how is this important to the case?" John looked back at Sherlock.

Sherlock snorted and responded with, "It's imperative he does or else I'll thump your nose!"

"Thumping his nose, Mr. Holmes?" Owen sheepishly moved his eyes to look at Sherlock who continued to stare at John.

John shrugged his shoulders and replied with, "If you care so much then why don't you show him our work?"

"I'll be too busy to do so, John," Sherlock retorted as he shook his head. "It's my duty as detective; I can't bother with menial work!"

"It's alright, Mr. Holmes, I trust your word," Owen desperately tried changing the topics, hoping to prevent them from going mad. It worked enough that John dissected everything Sherlock ever said and done and Sherlock refuting every statement made. Apparently this was common, Sherlock forcing work on others for his own sake and refusing to take no as answer. John, savvy to his ways, cut through his refutes and made it clear he was not going to do everything Sherlock told him. He was not his assistant anymore and thus cleared he of any duties Sherlock ever so collected. It did not stop Sherlock; he just came up with ways to force John into doing them.

"As it stands, I'm not doing everything, Sherlock," John pointed at him. "I will however do this. Not because you told me to, but out of my own volition."

Sherlock did not try to hide the fact John trumped him. He merely looked down at his plate and stabbed the remaining eggs Benedict, in a huff.

In an hour, they finished breakfast and since the owner of the café happened to been a client for Sherlock, their breakfast came to a total of free. It almost made Owen feel like he robbed the place given he ate more than his fair share of biscuits and bacon.

Sherlock flagged down a cab and told the cabby to take them a block from the bakery. "I'm not sure how this might help, Mr. Holmes," Owen blinked as he glanced out the window.

Sherlock shook his head at this. Having done several cases over the course of years, Sherlock found the best way to find answers, often or not, required his clients to take him where an incident occurred. Even small as it was, it helped him immensely and gave him ideas. Owen might have remembered little of the incident, but Sherlock needed to retrace his steps. He also wanted to find where the mysterious vehicle disappeared and where it might have gone. There was also him wanting to know the reason behind the theft in the bakery, very strange only so little money disappeared, and if Owen told him enough, then Bruno's sons were innocent in the theft.

Bruno's sons loved the bakery, well enough to put their own money into it; they had no reason to steal from their own father's bakery.

On Sherlock's mind, he thought about the Mustang Owen mentioned. John had not found any Mustangs matching Owen's description, not even the plate number came up.

One could say Owen simply mistook the model and plate number, but Sherlock said otherwise.

Curiously, as Sherlock continued to think about it, if the vehicle has invalid plates, surely it would mean that it gotten a ticket constantly if not outright towed.

The cab arrived at a bookstore and the trio exited. John paid the fare and the cab pulled away from the curb before slipping through a line of cars.

Sherlock turned toward Owen who stood silently, looking around. "Now, Mr. Van Burton, I want you to recount the events in the precise order," Sherlock pointed at him.

Owen slowly nodded as he took a deep breath. "Right, I was walking to work, as usual," he slowly said as he began walking, Sherlock and John following him.

Taking the time to look around, Owen slowly put together the events of that day. He was walking to work; he said his greetings to a florist working on a display outside a storefront, there were kids playing on the sidewalk. Someone shouted at them to get in the flat and pick up their sty. Which they quickly did while blaming it on each other. Mr. Lawson greeted him while unloading furniture from his work truck.

Owen stopped at the corner of the street where the bakery sits. He turned to Sherlock, "I felt like I was watched right here, Mr. Holmes, right here."

Sherlock circled around, taking a visual look at every nook and cranny of the road. "No windows, no alleys, were there any people on this road when you came down?" Sherlock stopped short of Owen.

Owen thought about it, there were the usual faces he seen on this particular stretch of road. Mrs. Addams and her kids waiting at the side of the road for a cab, they were going to see a movie. Nana Harley and her granddaughters taking their evening stroll, gossiping about shows that Owen never watched or heard of. Chrissy and Sansa, walking home from a long day at the clinic, discussing dinner plans and potential dates they incurred during their day. Solomon looked intense, he carried some letters under his arms, passing people has he headed to the post office.

"No, no one out of place, Mr. Holmes," Owen shook his head. He walked around the corner and stopped. The bakery right there and open, people entering and exiting with bags of whatever Bruno and his sons made for today.

Sherlock stood beside Owen while John stood behind them. Owen pointed at the bakery, "He's making tandoori bread today, means his sons are working with him."

"Does he make it often?" Sherlock asked him. Owen slowly nodded. He said to Sherlock, "He usually does it once a week, Fridays or Thursdays, depends on when they prep the workstation. He always does it during holidays."

Sherlock passed him and walked until he stood a step from the bakery and pointed. "The Mustang, where was it parked when you saw it that day, Mr. Van Burton was it further from the bakery, perhaps close to it?" He turned around to face Owen.

Owen pondered before he pointed toward a marked curb where the Lorries usually parked. "It was parked there, I don't know why. I'll be surprised if it didn't get a ticket," Owen shrugged his bony shoulders as Sherlock quickly ran toward to the parking area and glimpsed around, leaving Owen to look to John for guidance and John only capable of shaking his head, silently warning him not to ask questions as he had no answers to speak of.

The curb the Mustang parked, spacious enough for the Lorries to come by, but enough to keep the Mustang out of sight from the bakery.

Sherlock faced where the bonnet would have faced and deduced the Mustang came up from where Owen usually walked and sat here in this curb for god knows how many minutes.

Someone must have gotten out of the Mustang at some point and slipped into the bakery.

"Mr. Van Burton, when you worked as his baker, any unusual customers that might have come through?" Sherlock turned his head to Owen who sheepishly walked over to him, his black stringy hair bobbing.

"No, they're the usual bunch that comes in every time. Even then, there were days I worked as his accountant, if there were anyone suspicious I didn't see them, Mr. Holmes," Owen rubbed his chin as he thought about it. All the customers he met were the same as before, around the clock without any change. Hardly anyone new came to the bakery; it was not fancy.

"Perhaps you overheard some customers when you were his accountant," Sherlock turned around fully to face Owen as he walked up to him.

"There are no other businesses on this stretch of road, Sherlock. The only thing I see here is the bakery. Are you positive they weren't coming here to get some muffins and jam?" John looked at him.

Clearly, John did not mean it in the way Sherlock took it; in fact, it gave Sherlock an idea. "John, you're brilliant," Sherlock complimented him. Awestruck and confused, John slowly blinked his eyes before he said in response, "I am. Oh, I am."

"I don't quite understand, what's this supposed to mean?" Owen blinked.

"I believe they got hungry," Sherlock gave a toothy smile, one that made Owen take a step back.

John crossed his arms. He asked Sherlock, "If they got hungry, why would they go to a bakery they robbed from?"

"Suppose, there's more to that than we realized," Sherlock passed them. He stopped and turned to John.

"John, how much are you carrying right now?" he suddenly asked John.

John tilted his head at Sherlock, confused. "I like to keep at least a hun—why are you asking for my wallet?"

"I'm fancying some muffins myself, what about you Mr. Van Burton?" Sherlock glanced at Owen who only blinked in unison with John.

It took time and convincing, but John gave up some of his money for Sherlock to use. It appeared it happened quite often. So much that it has expected that Sherlock will ask something from people. Sometimes it is his phone in his pocket on the table or other times, it was money. More often or not, he borrowed people's phones to sends text when he is uninterested in using his own.

John spent many years with Sherlock to know this. Owen only knew this man for hours and there were things he was slowly learning about him that he did not catch on his website.

With money in hand, Sherlock walked across the road and slipped into the bakery while the door held opened by a man holding his donut.

The bakery had tandoori infused with saffron and cheese wafting through the small storefront. Saffron, strong, that Sherlock could smell it from the doorway. A line consisting of four people waited for their orders or turns. A woman received a neatly wrapped bag of freshly baked goods.

Paying Bruno, she turned and walked past Sherlock as a customer opened the door, allowing her to walk outside without stopping.

Sherlock glimpsed around the bakery, too small that someone could easily sit at a table inconspicuously. They would have stand where the customers lined up to speak with Bruno.

Sherlock's light blue eyes moved around, they stopped when they noticed something curiously. Bruno stocked sweets, more specifically M&M's.

What caught his eye, the stand the sweets rested on, recently placed there. It was there long after Owen left the bakery. It intrigued Sherlock as he walked in unison with the line. The woman in front of him asked for baguettes and some tandoori.

"Horus, how long until the next batch of tandoori is done?" Bruno called into the slit leading into the kitchen. A gruff voice replied with, "Two minutes!"

"Two minutes, they should've been done," Bruno shook his head as he turned to his customer.

"Excuse me, it'll just be a bit," he smiled at the woman before he disappeared into the kitchen, likely to yell at Horus.

Taking this opportunity, Sherlock slipped toward the stand of sweets and picked up a box of M&M's. These ones omitted certain colors; these were "spring" M&M's. Light colors only. As Sherlock glanced at the stand of sweets, all the packaging on the M&M's omitted the brown M&M.

With the box of sweets in hand, Sherlock noticed on the counter stacked receipts pierced by a long thimble. Carefully nearing it, Sherlock glimpsed through the receipts while customers busied themselves with conversations.

Sherlock stopped when he noticed an odd sale.

Dated April 4, 2016, someone with cash bought a ton of M&M, specifically the spring variety ones. Covertly pulling the paper from the thimble and sticking in his pocket, Sherlock moved toward the line again just as Bruno came back with a stack of freshly made tandoori, neatly wrapped in brown parchment paper. "Here is your tandoori, ma'am," he said to the woman as he stuck it on the bottom of the brown bag before carefully sealing the bag with tape. He grabbed another, rather long brown bag, before he stuck two wrapped baguettes inside before sealing the top. With a large white plastic bag with the bakery's logo, Bruno filled it with the bags before tying it off and handing to the woman.

"Thank you," the woman smiled as she held the bag in her dainty hand. With her order, the woman turned around, walked past Sherlock and the amassing line of people before she reached the door, and exited.

"How can I help you, today?" Bruno asked Sherlock. Sherlock cleared his throat and used some of those years in acting school. "Hi, do you have some muffins, more specifically blueberry and cinnamon?" Sherlock requested.

Bruno smiled and shook his head, "Of course, they ought to be fresh."

Horus stuck his head from the window slit to tell Bruno he has a phone call waiting.

Bruno at first tried to brush it off, reminding Horus he had a customer waiting. The seriousness in Horus' voice, thick, was enough to draw Bruno away from the counter. He then asked for his other son, Ty, to take over while he was in the back.

"I'm sorry, I have to take that. My son will take care of you," Bruno turned to Sherlock before walking through the door. As he did, a younger man came out. Bruno said things to Ty in their native tongue, hush that Sherlock could not hear them.

Bruno disappeared and Ty walked up to the counter. He was young that Sherlock placed him as a university graduate.

"Hi, I'll be taking your order, what was it?" Ty asked Sherlock. Sherlock repeated his order and Ty nodded. "Right, anything else?" he asked.

Sherlock showed him the M&M. Ty took it into his hand before ringing it and the muffins up. It totaled to around fifteen pound and Sherlock handed him the exact amount.

Coyly, Sherlock asked Ty, "Excuse me, do you have jam packets?"

"Sure, we have raspberry, blackberry, and strawberry, what ones do you want?" Ty replied.

"Um, can I have all three, please?" Sherlock responded.

Ty nodded before digging around in the unseen drawers before stacking on the counter three of the specified jam packets. He brought out another set before tallying the amount, one pound. Sherlock paid for them and he stuck them at the bottom of a smaller brown bag before sticking it inside another plastic bag. Ty grabbed the muffins from the sheets, six each, before carefully putting them into two brown parchment bags. When he finished he marked the bags with the variations before sticking them into the plastic bag.

With the M&M's being the final addition, Ty handed Sherlock a copy of his receipt before puncturing the store copy on the thimble.

Sherlock held the bag and walked outside the bakery to see John and Owen patiently waiting across the street near a stop sign.

"It appears my deduction is correct," Sherlock declared this to them as he handed John his change. With his free hand, Sherlock pulled out the spring M&M's and showed them to Owen.

"Notice anything peculiar, Mr. Van Burton?" Sherlock asked him.

Owen stared at the packaging and realized what it was. "When did he carry that?" Owen pointed. "He never had that when I worked!"

John looked at Sherlock. "It can't mean anything, lots of places stock sweets," he shook his head. Proven wrong when Sherlock showed him the receipt he pulled from the thimble.

"Someone bought a lot of M&M's," Sherlock said to John and Owen. "Not a single pastry item on this receipt."

"Bad habits, maybe," John shrugged his shoulders. "Could be a pregnant woman for all we know. Mary craved ice cream and I had to buy her cartons of it!"

"No, John, look at the date," Sherlock pointed at it. "That was four weeks after you quit your job with Bruno, was it not?"

Sherlock glimpsed at Owen looking at the date.

"Bruno-Bruno wouldn't be a part of this," Owen said in disbelief. They had differences, but Owen did not believe he would do something like this. It is not possible.

"He took a phone call when I was in there, Mr. Van Burton and his body language said it all, something about it made him afraid," Sherlock eyed Owen.

"Okay, suppose that is true, what purpose does it serve to stalk and break into his flat?" John inquired.

Sherlock handed him the bag of pastries before walking forward, past where the Mustang parked and followed the sidewalk toward the end. He stopped and turned around and pointed left.

"He doesn't mean for us to follow, does he, Dr. Watson?" Owen looked at John.

John looked back at him and sighed. "If we don't follow him and he gets hurt, the Badger won't like it very much," he admitted to Owen as he began to walk.

Owen stood there for a minute, contemplating this event. It sounded insane and almost improbable, but at the same time, it brought up some sort of answers. At least Owen had some credence, not enough to incite action, but enough to prove that he was not lying.

Owen took a deep breath and jogged to catch up to them. When he did Sherlock pointed at the road the Mustang drove on.

"It leads to the warehouse district," Sherlock explained to them.

"Lots of people work in the warehouse district," John interjected. It did not do any good as Sherlock ignored him and continued to walk across the street before reaching the other side.

"Come on, we can't dally!" Sherlock called to them.

Sheepishly, Owen followed John as they walked with Sherlock past some storefronts. On the radio at one storefront, a song from Matilda Smith played.

* * *

Who are you?

You went by many names,

No one knows you but yourself.

You hide amongst the shadows,

You give the orders and they listen.

And it was you who took him from me!

* * *

Sherlock stopped at this storefront to use his mobile. He texted someone, John presumed it being Lestrade. Owen, confused, asked who Lestrade was. John gave him the short version just as Sherlock looked at them.

"Lestrade tells me that the warehouses ship across country," he said to them.

"What does that mean for us?" Owen blinked as he turned his head to John.

John only said, "We have to do some walking."

They continued walking, passing the storefront with the radio as the music continued to blare.

* * *

Who are you?

What have you done with him?

Tell me,

Where did you take him?

You took him from me,

Left me with bitter tears,

Now I know the truth behind your fears.

Your notions are in motion,

We will meet under dark premonitions,

There I will give you a demotion!

* * *

As they walked, Owen realized he was getting hungry again, walking around made him hungry for some of those muffins and it did not help that he carried the bag as John had to text Mary.

With permission, Owen grabbed for a blueberry muffin and bit the end of the blackberry packet before he bit down on the muffin. Despite him not working at the bakery anymore, Owen did always miss the pastries they made.

* * *

Tell me,

Who are you?

What are you doing to those around you?

Tell me,

It ain't just one thing!

You desire something a little more,

You will kill for it,

You will take to achieve the goal.

Tell me,

Why are you doing this?

What twisted notions do you carry?

* * *

Sherlock led them to a bookstore on a hunch. He noticed they too sold sweets and gone in. Owen used this opportunity to use the lavatories and buy cold drinks. As Owen munched on a cinnamon muffin, he listened to the same song that played on the speakers.

* * *

It ain't just one thing!

It was never _just_ one thing!

Tell me,

What did you do to him?

Why is his smile gone?

Tell me,

What darkness have you invoked?

Can it be undone?

I will not leave without my One!

* * *

Sherlock found that someone did indeed buy a copious amount of M&M's, the clerk could not remember who did as she had a dentist appointment that day. She mentioned, however, a Mustang matching Sherlock's description came through recently.

Thanking her, Sherlock led them out of the bookstore and onward. Taking a blueberry muffin and a blackberry jam packet, Sherlock told them what he deduced.

Someone had an unhealthy sweet tooth. An addict who rather liked a specific treat, for reasons he did not want the brown M&M's.

Sherlock saw it as an opportunity. An easy way to find the perpetrator, the only thing they had to do was find suspects and line them up. Whoever didn't eat the brown M&M's, was the perp.

* * *

Tell me,

Where have you taken my One?

So long ago,

We danced under the midnight sun.

Now he is gone and all I see is you!

Tell me,

Who are you?

Why are you doing this?

Tell me,

What is your real name?

What twisted morals do you partake?

* * *

They stopped at a bench while Sherlock texted on his phone. It appeared Lestrade had plenty on his plate as it is and could not help Sherlock. Lestrade did however suggest contacting the Badger, but Sherlock refused.

"Who's the Badger?" Owen asked John as he chewed on the cinnamon muffin with a mix of the jam packets.

John groaned as he rubbed his eyes. "Sibling rivalry, is all it is between them," he summed for Owen just as he drank some cola.

Owen tilted his head, "They don't like each other, do they?"

"Hah, no, the only way they'd behave is if their mother threatens them with a frying pan," John chuckled.

Sherlock immediately told them to get up; he has a lead on the Mustang. A friend of Sherlock said that it stopped in front of his shop and apparently met the driver.

* * *

It ain't just one thing,

It was _never_ just one thing!

You took him for something,

Now I know what you are doing,

Tell me,

Who are you, really?

What are you hiding?

Now I know the wicked truth,

Why are you pretending?

* * *

After finishing the last of the muffins and their drinks, Owen stuffed the back into the nearest rubbish bin before rejoining Sherlock and John who stood in front of a music store.

"He stopped at a music store?" Owen blinked, befuddled at what Sherlock told him. "Of all things, this man who broke into my flat several times, loves chocolate and bloody music?"

"It's something, Mr. Van Burton," Sherlock reminded him before they entered to find the last half of the song playing.

"Bloody hell, he must be some person," John shook his head as he followed them.

* * *

Tell me,

What have you done to my One?

He has his face;  
He has barely a name,

He is one in the same,

But something is dreadfully wrong!

Tell me,

What twisted notions warped your perception?

What did he do to you, my beloved?

What has he done to you?

Tell me,

What have you done to deserve this unholy fate?

What can I do to relate?

Tell me,

Are you still the man I loved?

The one who made me smile?

* * *

"He didn't buy the M&M's," the clerk told Sherlock. Sherlock crossed his arms as he stared at the boxes of the sweets. None contained the brown M&M's, but it appeared there was something more to this than he imagined.

"Um, he bought a Matilda Smith album," the clerk mentioned this to Sherlock. Sherlock uncrossed his arms and tilted his head.

"Really," Sherlock had a look of disbelief on his face. Apparently, he did not listen to a whole lot of music, majority of time he composed them himself. Other times, he barely listened to the radio.

The clerk nodded as he gone into details. "He came in and b-lined for the shelf. Brought me the album and told me to ring it up," he said.

"This man, what did he look like?" Sherlock asked the clerk. The clerk pondered as he thought about it.

"I didn't get a real good look at his face. He wore sunglasses," the clerk replied.

John and Owen went to the shelf where the Matilda Smith albums sat and browsed. "Huh, so that's the song's name," Owen showed John the back of the album "Sweet October". The song's name that played throughout their trek tilted "Who are you? (And What Did You Do with Him?)"

"You know, I don't think I ever remember her getting married," Owen mentioned to John as he sat the album back on the shelf.

"I don't think she ever dated," John remembered.


	5. A Man and His Porcelain Turtle

"Mr. Holmes, what do you suppose this all means? One minute this bloke has a craving for M&M's and suddenly he's a fan of Matilda Smith, this man is surely mad with all things considering," Owen followed Sherlock out of the music store. Sherlock slightly turned his head to him and replied with, "Mr. Van Burton, I believe we're dealing with more than one individual."  
"More than one, you think there are _two_ blokes breaking into his flat?" John trailed behind as he eyed Sherlock. "Why'd two men break into someone's flat for?"

"That is for Mr. Van Burton to tell and us to decipher," Sherlock gave a vague response. Owen shook his head and replied with, "I done nothing wrong, though. I keep my nose clean and I pay my due, why'd anyone want with me?"

Sherlock didn't say anything more and they continued their trek to the warehouse district. By the time they gotten there, it would turn five and Sherlock stopped at every warehouse that allowed him in to ask about the strange Mustang. None gave the answers he wanted and he continued this while John and Owen attempt to keep up with him.

By the time they barely touched the slaughterhouses, John and Owen gave a long look at Sherlock. Frustration clearly on his face, Owen wanted to say something but John stopped him. It happened on numerous occasions where Sherlock ended up without a clue and for the best of thing, allow him to cool off. Only interact if he's at the brink of hurting himself or someone else.

"Thirty warehouses and no one's seen a damned Mustang," Sherlock cursed as he stomped around with his arms behind his back. "Are everyone as blind as mice, why hasn't anyone spotted one damn Mustang?"

"Sherlock, has it occurred to you no one's paid any attention to incoming cars. They're busy with their trade, they're not going to pay any attention to what car comes through," John snapped at him. He spoke about doing this several times, comforting Sherlock when he's frustrated doesn't work. The only thing that broke his spell involved yelling in his face and acting confrontational if need be. It'd have Sherlock yell in your face, but it was enough to put him past his spell and allow him a chance for clarity.

"We've interviewed everyone under the damn sun, John, someone should've seen it!" Sherlock snapped back. He stopped and a look appeared on his face, a crooked smile spread and rubbed his hands like a child that found a new game to play. "Ah-hah! So that's why we had no luck!" Sherlock grinned as he looked at John and Owen.

The two exchanged looks with one another and Owen sheepishly asked, "What do you mean, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock pointed at him and instantly told him, "You, go home, if anything happens I prefer texting to calling, please keep that in mind."

Owen tilted his head at Sherlock. This man was surely mad!

"Mr. Holmes, what good does that do?" He scratched at his head.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and gestured with his hands. As he did, he explained to Owen, "It doesn't matter "what good does that do" I just need you to return home promptly!"

Owen had no strength to argue with Sherlock, he didn't have an ounce of muscle. He slowly nodded at Sherlock's request and sheepishly asked, "What about you, what are you going to do, Mr. Holmes?"

"Looking, Mr. Van Burton," Sherlock waved him away as he turned and walked off, leaving behind Owen and John who held looks on their faces.

John turned to Owen who blinked and said, "It's better not to ask him, you'd just get stuck in a never ending circle. Text or call me if anything comes up, Sherlock rarely checks his messages."

"Right, thank you Dr. Watson," Owen bowed his head.

In the distance, Sherlock called out for John and John gave a deep sigh before walking off to join Sherlock on his hunt for the Mustang.

Owen called for a cab and returned to his flat. By the time the cab pulled up to the curb, the sun slowly set over the horizon. Owen walked through the door and waited for Sheila. She always yelled at him for whatever reason when he was out longer than usual. She never did, however.

Sheila never came out to shout at him, so it meant she took her medication. Or that she didn't care at all what he did and wanted to continue watching her favorite show without stopping to bother Owen.

Owen walked up the stairs and hobbled toward his door, upon opening it and entering, a familiar face waited on his usual spot. "Hello, Frank," Owen greeted the porcelain turtle as he plopped down on the couch, took off his shoes, and stretched out. "You can't say I don't ever exercise, Frank. I've almost walked twenty-four kilometers today, he almost ran us rag!"

Owen rubbed his eyes and realized the time. Against his muscles' wishes, Owen forcibly pushed up from the couch, sauntered toward the bathroom, and took his medication. Walking back into the living room and turning on the Telly, Owen sprawled onto the couch and stared up at the ceiling. Frank asked him what was wrong.

"He's bloody mad, Frank," Owen admitted to him as he slowly blinked. "They say he's one of the best, but he's just mad, the way he talks, walks, I bet you he doesn't even sleep at night!"

"Mad as a hatter, Owen?" He heard Frank. He turned his head to see the turtle looking at him. Owen slowly nodded. "Yeah, but he can't be all bad, though, right?" Owen thought about it as he lay on the couch. "I mean, if he were dangerous they'd lock him up, right?"

"If you consider him suggesting the notion that his doctors are all morons and he's got the correct prognosis "dangerous", then yes, he is quite certainly dangerous," Frank dryly said to Owen.

Owen blinked as he shook his head. "Dr. Watson seems like a polar opposite. How do they even work together, they barely worked together when I was with them!"

"Perhaps they're both lunatics, ever considered that?" Frank suggested.

Owen chuckled at this as he rubbed his eyes. As he did, he heard Frank ask, "How is it going on their end, Tweddle-Dee and Tweddle-Dum, surely you must've found something on your trek, yes?"

"Haven't found much of an answer, but we have a lot of clues, now. Mr. Holmes thinks there's two of them, one likes his non-brown M&M's and the other likes Matilda Smith!" Owen blinked as he told Frank what they've found on their journey.

Frank then asked, "So, someone has a sugar intake problem and the other is a lonely sob. None of you three found what you were looking for?"

Owen shook his head. He frowned as he slowly blinked. "No, we haven't found the Mustang. Sherlock was sure it gone into the warehouse district, but no one's seen it," he dejectedly told Frank who proceeded to click his tongue at him.

"Sometimes what you're looking for is right in front of you, ever thought of that?" Frank suggested. Owen turned his head toward the couch and frowned. Frank sighed and offered some consolation, "Chin up, o' bean, it's only the beginning. They'll turn up something soon. By then, everything will be over and you won't have to look like a bum every week because you're too lazy to buy a new razor."

Frank's notion of consolation differed greatly form everyone else's, but Owen wasn't going to look at a gift horse in the mouth. Anything better than nothing and Owen took what he can, after all, as Frank said, it was only the beginning of the case. How long it'd take before Sherlock can solve it and return normality to Owen's life, no one will know until Sherlock finds the men and question them.

"I wish I could understand _why_ this is happening to me," Owen bemoaned as he blinked. "What have I done?"

"There could be a silver-lining in this," Frank reminded him. Owen turned his body toward Frank as the turtle sat comfortably in his spot on the table.

Owen shook his head and asked Frank, "What silver-lining is there?"

"Why, simply the greatest silver-lining in the world, Owen," Frank vaguely explained to him as Owen rubbed his sore eyes. "However, that must wait until another time. I'm bored of this conversation and you need a good shower."

In a few minutes, Owen moved from the couch and shuffled toward the bathroom again. He stayed in the shower for over ten minutes, as he pondered his peculiar situation. He owed no money. He had no drugs or used anymore. No one he met looked to hold a grudge. Nothing added up and it bothered him.

Once out of the shower and in a set of pajamas, Owen shuffled toward the kitchen and rounded up something to eat. A simple sandwich and a glass of milk, nothing special, Owen never really bought many groceries. With his plate and glass in hand, Owen took his spot at the couch and relaxed. As he ate, Owen watched some shows on the telly. Nothing special, just reruns, Owen never really watched any shows unless he felt like it.

"What if they can't find the Mustang?" Frank piped up. "Suppose it's really gone?"

"What do you mean, Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson will surely find it," Owen blinked as he looked down to Frank looking up at him.

Frank frowned and replied with, "Come now, you have to think about this these things. You can't be hopeful with those two."

"I trust them, how can I not, no one else does," Owen reminded Frank as he nibbled on the crust of the sandwich.

Frank sighed, "Not the point, do you really think it'll end when they find the Mustang?"

Owen stared at Frank, "Why wouldn't it?"

"Just because they nab the Mustang doesn't mean you'll get answers from it. I doubt the hunk of metal can even tell them where they went," Frank vaguely said.

For the remainder of the night, Owen sat at his computer and done his daily chore. There he fell asleep at the desk and dreamed something oddly peculiar indeed. He swore he heard distant pleading that swiftly turned to blood curdling screaming and sets of footsteps coming to his door.

Owen remained in his chair, not by his choice, he couldn't move a muscle as the door opened and huddled shadows walked inside. Owen's eyes could barely move, they slowly moved around the room, but his vision poorer than a bat's he couldn't make out any details in the shadows

Two came over and stood on each side and the third walked toward where Frank was and picked him up. The shadow on the right lifted Owen's hand and done something to his pinkie finger before setting down his hand on the desk. The shadow on the left stuck something in his arm and Owen couldn't feel it, even when it was taken out.

The shadows returned to the door and disappeared through the doorway. Then, the dream was over, daylight broke and Owen awoke to his phone going off. Sherlock wanted him dressed and ready, he had a lead on the Mustang. Owen stumbled out of his chair and slowly blinked.

He checked his pinkie finger and found nothing, checked his arm, nothing either. Frank seemed okay, though he complained Owen woke him from a perfectly good dream. Owen struggled to make sense of his dream as he dressed.

It dawned on him that he heard screaming and once he readied to leave, he went down the stairs and checked up on Sheila. Sheila didn't come to the door, she instead yelled at Owen about bothering her. She was watching her soaps and didn't want to be disturbed. Unless Owen was dying, about to die, or bleeding over the floor, he ought to leave.

"Maybe it was just a dream," Owen muttered to himself as he rubbed his eyes.

Owen stepped out into the street and found a cab on the curb waiting for him. Inside were two heads moving about and the passenger window slid down as Sherlock stuck his head out. "What are you waiting for, hurry up!" Sherlock barked at him.

Owen nodded and entered the cab. He was on the right side, Sherlock in the middle, and John at the left, Sherlock asked for the cab to take them to a diner. "Hungry, Mr. Holmes?" Owen looked at him. Sherlock shook his head at this.

"No, it's where our clue is," he explained to Owen. Owen tilted his head at this and responded with, "The diner's where our clue is?"

"Yes, now don't disturb, I'm very busy indeed," Sherlock sat in his spot and remained quiet for most of the ride over to the diner. Owen glanced over to John who only shrugged his shoulders. "Odd man, he is," Owen admitted to him. John chuckled, as if Owen told him a joke. "Oh, you can't even imagine," he only said.


	6. Red

The Morning Star Diner, an improv diner where it mixed various cuisines and created new dishes from them, the result of two friends pooling funds together and buying a rundown laundry mat almost seven years ago, now a hip place with locals and tourists alike. The name in itself came from the owners', Loeb and Shane, years traveling the world and childhood youths attending a Catholic Church. It seated forty-eight patrons and decorated with various items collected over the years, mementos strenuously placed as to show them to everyone who walked into the diner.

The floor of the diner though made of the same material, stone tiles, each tile comprised of an unique pattern. One tile purposely broken and glued together, one where marbles were placed in the tile before being fired in a kiln, so many unique tiles no one will see them all even if they ate at the diner every day of the week.

The chairs, also unique, some repurposed computer chairs, others gotten from offices, and the rest handmade by a friend of the owners. Even the tables came from different sources and few bought brand new, though, people loved their favorite tables over the newer ones.

The walls lined with photographs and painted in different colors, shapes, and patterns, some parts of the walls even had wallpaper straight from the 1960s'.

In the middle of the diner, a glass sculpture commissioned, the Morning Star itself in its crimson beauty, translucent and shined like a ruby. Special lights installed so at night or the winter months the sculpture lit up, twinkling just like the actual Morning Star.

Large speakers carefully placed around the diner, connected to an audio system behind the counter, blared music chosen by the owners. Sometimes it came from their personal playlists and other times their favorite radio stations played over the speakers. Today, it came from Loeb's personal playlist, filled to the brim with 70's and 80's tunes, specifically from the classic rock genre.

Entering the diner, the speakers blared one of David Bowie's famous songs, "Space Oddity".

Strolling up to the counter, Sherlock smiled at the woman who operated it. "Good morning," she greeted him as John and Owen stood behind him. Sherlock greeted back, "Good morning, is Loeb about, I was I could find him today?"

"Ah, I can check for you, sir," the woman offered. Sherlock nodded and she disappeared into the back. Turning around, Sherlock pointed at John and Owen. "Go, go, go take a seat," he shooed them. Owen turned to John who only shrugged his shoulders. Walking with John, Owen glanced around the diner in awe. Not somewhere, he would eat every day, but the kookiness addled charm intrigued Owen, even the damned tiles looked interesting with their unique patterns!

"Ah, here we go," John, pointed to a section of the diner. Walking with him, Owen saw their table. The table itself, a repurposed dining room table (cut in half to make two) once in a fire sometime ago, now a table dedicated to the band Dokken. On the center of the table an excerpt from one of their songs, "We're the Dream Warriors, ain't gonna dream no more!"

The three chairs for the table, repurposed computer chairs from from a university, the wheels replaced with standard legs, and all groaned when sat on. "I'll admit, I've never really went about places. Even before all this started, I barely went anywhere," Owen blinked as he looked at John. John chuckled at this and shook his head. "Work under Sherlock long enough and he'll send you to a remote village somewhere and have you do his job under the premise he's doing _his_ job."

"Sounds interesting, though, getting to go places, even if it's for cases," Owen showed genuine interest, but John waved his hand at this. He reminded Owen that when it came to Sherlock, even if the place had everything one could want, Sherlock's antics ensured that there would be no time to enjoy any of it. Assuming, of course, he does not get you arrested under some scheme he concocted.

Just as John and Owen were about to take their seats, Sherlock reappeared and scorned them. "What do you mean we have to sit somewhere else?" John stared at Sherlock apathetically. Owen tilted his head in confusion and meekly asked, "I thought you said take our seats?"

Sherlock shook his head, his curly hair bobbing in response. He explained to them, "No, we have to sit exactly where _they_ sat!"

Owen stared at Sherlock, befuddled by his explanation. Only when it clicked in his brain did he understand what Sherlock meant. He tilted his head at Sherlock and asked, "They actually ate here?"

"Yes, come, come, we cannot dawdle," Sherlock pulled them to the table the suspects sat. Located by the window, the table itself came from a junkyard. The table-depicted one of Shane's favorite artists, Matilda Smith, pressed into glass, the album covers and pictures of the famed singer gleamed under the makeshift overhead light. The chairs for that table came from the offices of an old library the owners' once made their home during exams. Again, the wheels replaced with standard legs and the armrests refitted, no longer wide, as they once were.

Sitting down at the table, Owen and John exchanged looks before turning their attention to Sherlock who glanced around the table and the chairs. "Okay, so, they sat here," John spoke up first. "Why sit here, wouldn't they be afraid of someone recognizing them?"

"You don't suppose it's because of Matilda Smith, is it, Mr. Holmes?" Owen suggested to him as a server came and handed them lamented menus. Sherlock nodded, refusing to talk more on the subject matter while the server stood near the table. Instead, he told the server what they wanted to drink. He wanted coffee with sugar, John wanted Earl Grey with honey, and Owen wanted coffee, black. Only when the server moved away from the table, did Sherlock continue.

"Of course they sat here because of Matilda Smith," Sherlock snorted at Owen. "That's not why they sat here."

"You're going to run us rag mentally until you outright tell us, aren't you?" John stared at Sherlock questionably. Sherlock rolled his eyes and shook his head in disappointment. "John, please keep up, don't become like Anderson," he scolded John, like a child. Owen simply remained quiet, afraid of incurring Sherlock's scorn, but forced into the conversation anyway.

Sherlock waved his finger around the diner and asked a question to them both, "Why come to a public place, what purpose does it serve?"

"Um, I'm not one for word games, but I'd say alibi, Mr. Holmes. Maybe they wanted to establish one in case they got caught?" Owen sheepishly answered as he glanced down at his menu, attempting to read while continuing to answer Sherlock's questions.

John crossed his arms at Sherlock and responded with, "Since they sat at the window and given the profile thus far, they're looking for someone. However, why sit at the window where everyone can see them?"

Sherlock only answered them once the server returned with their drinks. She then asked what they wanted and Sherlock once more told her what everyone wanted. He wanted eggs Benedict special number four, John wanted the biscuit special number three with chicken and gravy, and Owen wanted toasted chicken and roast beef sandwich with the BBQ infused tomato bisque. Once the server wrote down their orders, she disappeared with their menus and Sherlock said nothing else.

Grabbing three sugar cubes from the neat stack of sick on the dish beside his coffee, Sherlock dropped one at a time, stirring each one in before doing the same for the rest. He glanced up at John and Owen who looked at him confused.

"Why come to a public place where people can see you, why sit in plain view of the street out there?" Sherlock questioned them as he stirred his coffee. John shrugged his shoulders as he replied with, "Sherlock, you've asked these questions and not once have you provided us with _your_ answer!"

Owen glanced at Sherlock's mug of coffee; Sherlock meticulously stirred the three sugar cubes so the sugar melted evenly. He blended the coffee and sugar delicately to avoid clumps of sugar from sticking to the bottom and unconsciously he gave his response. "They wanted to blend in?"

Sherlock's light blue eyes lit up as he pointed at Owen with the spoon. John crossed his arms as he attempted to understand what Sherlock was trying to tell them. "They wanted to blend in, why?" John questioned and Sherlock rolled his eyes in response.

"John, why blend in, what purpose does it serve to blend in a crowd?" Sherlock pointed at him with the spoon. John pondered this and shrugged his arms, "Establish alibis, maybe trying to stalk someone, I don't know Sherlock, you tell us!"

Sherlock exhaled as he explained to them, "This diner, everything about it assaults your senses. You will not pay attention to everything, even if you tried. Things stare at you even when you are not even looking. This diner is perfect; it _blends_ you into the background."

John and Owen exchanged looks with each other as they attempted to understand what Sherlock said. The suspects came here not because they were hungry; it hid them in plain sight. No one would look at them twice here in this diner compared to any other, because there is too many things to focus on that it would be impossible. Shortsightedness that is what the suspects wanted, hiding amongst the other patrons, unassuming and even if they were not anyone would question. Sitting by the window maximizes this simply because no one will focus on them; they focused on the mix-matched nature of the diner to care.

"So, they come here not just because they had a hankering from shrimp and grits with Tabasco sauce, they came here because they hid in plain sight?" John summed as Sherlock slowly nodded. Owen chewed on his lips as he attempted to make sense of this and said in addition, "You don't think they've done this before, have you, or that they just been watching too many spy movies?"

Sherlock silenced them once more before he talked. "Is it coincidence that the Matilda Smith table is near the window, I don't think so. Mr. Loeb informed me this table did not sit here originally. The original table happened to been Blur, but it was swapped out for Matilda Smith," he glanced at John and Owen who only listened. Registering the confusion on their faces, Sherlock shook his head and continued explaining. "The Matilda Smith table did not exist _until_ the Blur table suffered damage from termites."

The implication that the Blur table suffered from termites seemed odd if not impossible. John pointed this out to Sherlock, "Sherlock, if a table had termites, others would've too."

"Not just any table, John, the _Blur_ table!" Sherlock scorned him, causing Owen to tilt his head.

Owen slowly said, "The Blur table got termites, so that the Matilda Smith table replaced it?"

"Yes, Mr. Van Burton, that is precisely what I mean," Sherlock nodded.

The food arrived and the server sat them down, the smell wafted from the table and made Owen hungry at the sight of his order. Just before Owen picked up one of the sandwiches, he noticed Sherlock receiving dessert from the server. "Sugar tooth, Mr. Holmes?" Owen inquired as he pointed at the small bowl, inside a scoop of ice cream with whipped cream on top.

"Not my sugar tooth, Mr. Van Burton," Sherlock replied as he stabbed the accompanying spoon through the dessert and pried apart the ice cream. He pointed with the spoon to the bright color M&M's that stuck out more once he scrapped away the ice cream.

"You're saying one of them ordered a dessert for the M&M's?" John blinked as he looked at the dessert. Sherlock nodded and said to him, "Look at the M&M's, John."

John done so as Sherlock carefully pulled them out; he was surprised when he realized there was no brown M&M present. He attempted to reason that they simply used whatever bags of the sweets as they went, no one would bother with going through the M&M's to separate the colors.

"No brown M&M's," Owen winced as it became unapologetically apparent that the particular suspect that broke into his flat had a sweet tooth so strongly he dined on it excessively. "Mr. Holmes, he ordered the birthday cake ice cream, didn't he?"

"Indeed he did, Mr. Van Burton, the sprinkles and icing already exists in the ice cream itself, but the M&M's added texture. Sprinkles are often bright and cheery, dark colors such as brown would not bode well, do they not?" Sherlock pointed at Owen with the spoon.

"So they ate here, then that must mean they're close," John realized as Sherlock gave him a silent nod, acknowledging what he said. John blinked as he spoke, "Its thirty minutes to get here from Owen's flat, forty-five to the bakery, and only three hours from the warehouses."

"They have to be in this general area, then?" Owen summed as he felt a twinge of excitement from this. They were closer to finding the suspects, closer to putting this whole ordeal to rest, and that he will not have to hide anymore.

Sherlock looked at them and said, "They exercise caution precisely when they must, but other than that, they blend with the crowd around them. These are not ordinary people, Mr. Van Burton, I want you to think back for me, when you were arrested during your drug uses do you remember who was there when they processed you?"

Owen did not know what good this served, but agreed to do it anyway. He reached back to the depths of his conscious mind, attempting to remember the days where the police sometimes arrested him during routine searches. On his very first arrest, Owen remembered when they took him through the station, he got his fingerprints, his photographs taken, and the people he met while they processed him. Though he was under the influence, Owen swore he saw a strange man with a suitcase talking to one of the Bobbies that apprehended him. Owen did not recognize him, but something about the strange man unsettled him. Barely coherent as he was, Owen somewhat got a decent look at the man.

The strange man looked like he was in his 50s or at least early 60s, thin and pale skinned with dark veins, Owen mistook him as an alien. The strange man's dark shades that covered his eyes helped strengthen that belief. He wore a dark blue suit with a red tie and white collared shirt, he carried a grey leather suitcase in his left hand, and the way he talked made Owen swear he really was an alien.

Owen barely remembered what happened after that, because the Bobbies dragged him to a drunken tank to allow him to get over his blitz before they formally charge him. Though Owen never saw the strange man again, when he woke up somewhat sober than that night, he found that the Bobbies wanted nothing to do with him and simply wanted him gone. They did not even want to charge him, his legal fees taken care of. Yet, from then on, Owen never knew why, but the Bobbies treated him differently than any other bloke who done the same crime.

How it fit into this puzzle, Owen did not know, but attempted it anyway.

"About the time I started using, I ended up being caught by some Bobbies on a corner. I was blitzed, sir, I barely knew what was happening. They arrested me and brought me down to their station. They cuffed me to a bench while they did the paperwork. I was out of it. While blitzed, I saw a man, I do not know much about him, Mr. Holmes, and I barely knew where I was. He talked to one of the Bobbies, but, I wish I can tell you more, it's been a while," Owen shrugged as he settled in his seat. Sherlock had a genuine look on his face and quickly asked Owen, "What police station was this, do you remember, I must know."

"Um, Rutherford, but I don't know if they still have my files or even anything," Owen answered as Sherlock pushed out of the chair and stood up. John pointed at him, "Where are you going?"

"Rutherford, I believe this case of ours just took an interesting turn," Sherlock tugged at his coat and scarf. He stopped when he saw John leering at him and sighed, digging into his pockets and sticking a wad of money in the center of the table, enough to cover the bill and the trips in between taxis. Sherlock disappeared out of the diner and left John and Owen alone.

"Dr. Watson, does he do this all the time?" Owen asked him. John brought Sherlock's plate of eggs Benedict and dessert towards him and looked at Owen. Genuinely, John told him, "I learned to live with it, want some?"

Owen shrugged and help John decimate the eggs Benedict and ice cream before turning on his order. By the time they finished their actual orders, they barely had room for anything else. While waiting for the server to ring up the bill, John went to the bathroom, and Owen settled in his chair listening to the song playing over the speakers. A Red Children song, an oldie, but a goodie, "Red", the song played and Owen relaxed a little, regretting eating almost all of the ice cream.

"You look so pretty in red with your pale white face. You're my red lettered rose, when you walk turn your head and I'll be there in red. These days of yours gone astray and I'm there in red with my pale white face. I'm there when you take your place. You will be my fettered lace. You feel the malice building in your heart. Walk this way and I'm there in red with my pale white face. Take your chance, little rose, because I'll be there. Take a look at his face, darling, 'cause it won't be there anymore. You'll be singing on the moors in red and we have the pale white face and the red blood lace. There won't be a trace and not much grace so sit up straight because, darling, we dress in red and have the pale white face."

Owen felt a twinge of pain somewhere in his head and popped a pill just before John returned from the bathroom. The server returned with the bill and with the money that Sherlock gave them. They paid it in full. Walking outside the diner with John, Owen glanced around before turning to him. "Dr. Watson, reasonably speaking, why would these men come here, of all places in the city, why would they return more than once, there cannot be any reason for it now. Surely, yours and Sherlock's presences ought to scare them off, it'd make sense, no?" Owen wondered as he glanced around the surrounding area.

John sighed and shook his head; he ran a hand through his graying hair as he thought about the idea. Nothing made sense and Sherlock running out of the diner and into the unknown without telling them what they ought to do mean that they were in the dark. He answered Owen with, "Well, Sherlock rarely answers his messages when he's like this, so it means we'll have to figure things out as we go along."


	7. Visit to the Clinic

"Dr. Watson, I have no idea where to go from here," Owen admitted as they stood outside the diner. John pondered this and shook his head in response. He finally said to Owen, "How about the pharmacy you went to?"

"What purpose does that serve, Dr. Watson?" Owen scratched his head in confusion. John pointed at him as he brought up, "Sherlock always said to consider everything."

"But, Dr. Watson, what does the pharmacy have to do with this?" Owen asked. John raised a finger as he replied with, "Suppose they had a visitor or two."

Owen pondered this and realized what John inferred. Suppose, the men dropped by the pharmacy. What reason they would have to do so, Owen had no clue, but John seemed set in the idea.

John hailed a cab and the drive to Wooster's Pharmacy slightly delayed from the traffic, but in an hour or two, they arrived. Paying the fare with some of the money Sherlock left for them, John and Owen exited the cab and stood in front of the pharmacy. John turned his head to Owen and asked him, "Did you notice anyone suspicious while getting your medications?"

"No, no one like that, Dr. Watson," Owen shook his head in response.

Owen went to the pharmacy every time he had his prescription filled. No one in particular stood out in his mind, anyone who entered the pharmacy was someone Owen seen around the area. Young couple getting "supplies", women buying feminine hygiene products, men buying protein shakes, cholesterol reducers, and sometimes the occasional "blue pill", none of these people was anyone that roused suspicion from Owen.

Entering the pharmacy, subtle music played over the speakers and people walked around the aisles holding hand baskets. Toward the wall on the right, the pharmacy counter, a young man, on his nametag Deidrick, sat in a chair overlooking the Dell monitor. Approaching the counter, Owen flashed a smile at the young man who glanced at him and tilted his head.

"It's not time for you to fill up your prescription," he pointed at Owen. Owen shook his head and responded with, "No, you're mistaken; I'm not here to fill up my prescription."

"So, why are you here?" Deidrick questioned, he glanced past Owen to look at John and furrowed his brow in confusion. "You know I hate playing the question game, so spill. Why are you skulking in here with Arthur Dent?"

Owen shook his head and explained, "He just wants to ask a few questions. He's working with Sherlock Holmes, you have my word, and he's the real deal."

Deidrick narrowed his light eyes on John and snorted. "You're telling me Arthur Dent works for the loony in the blue coat?" He chortled at the sheer thought. John shook his head at this and said to Deidrick, "My name is Dr. John Watson and yes, I do work for the loony in the blue coat."

Deidrick tilted his head, his mix of blond and dark bangs slightly moved ajar as he asked, "Well, if you say you are a doc, then that would mean you have a medical license on your person, no?"

John dug out his wallet and opened it, revealing different cards neatly tucked into the slits. He pulled out one from the bottom and showed Deidrick. Deidrick read it carefully before saying, "Certainly no fake."

He stretched out his arms and yawned. When he stopped, he settled in his chair and waved his hand. "Come on then, ask your questions, doc," he looked at John. John cleared his throat as he asked Deidrick, "Has anyone inquired about Mr. Van Burton's prescription, recently?"

Deidrick, amused, tilted his head as he crossed his arms. Not an ordinary question he heard before, probably the most ordinary non-ordinary, considering the odd characters that sometime enter the pharmacy late at night often have their own peculiar questions for Deidrick to answer. Deidrick chewed on his bottom lip, his sharp canine glistened in the light as he pondered. "Nah, no one come in asking 'bout his script. 'Sides I can't give that kind of information out freely to every soul that waltzes in here on a given day, I'd lose my job," he shrugged at the question.

"What about phone calls?" John continued to ask his questions. Deidrick rubbed his eyes and shrugged his stout shoulders before saying, "I've had plenty people trying to pass off as doctors sending scripts on the phone, they think they're clever, but when I ask for identification they hang up quick. The real doctors that call here are verified, that much I can tell you."

John nodded as he listened to Deidrick explain how he verified doctors. He then asked Deidrick, "Suppose I ask this, then, have any verified doctors called in about Mr. Van Burton's prescriptions?"

Deidrick snorted and shook his head. He crossed his fingers at John, it was a question he would not answer not even hint. "Sorry doc, doctor-patient confidentially, I can't break that, even if you are a doc," Deidrick informed him.

Owen cleared his throat. If John could not ask that question, then he would in his place. He glimpsed at Deidrick relaxing in his chair, a content look on his face, and said to him, "Then tell me. It is about me after all. Have any doctors called about my prescription?"

Deidrick's face turned from content to quizzical. He stared at Owen for a few minutes before he answered, "Well, just your doctor, Dr. Mason. He wanted me to alter your prescription. He even asked if I still had your original prescription. I wish I can tell you more why, but, he said it was a police matter."

John's brow rose at the sentence, a police matter.

"Mr. Deidrick, I happen to work alongside the police. Perhaps you can tell me what happened?" John inquired as Deidrick's face changed from quizzical to something neither could describe. It looked neutral, but something or another looked off, why that is, neither John nor Owen could discern.

Deidrick sighed and cracked his knuckles. When he stopped he glimpsed at Owen before telling John, "Some intern or another "lost" several dozen paperwork regarding patients. How you lose those kinds of things, I do not rightly know. I wish I can tell you more."

Owen flinched when he heard this. The intern lost confidential papers, brimmed with patient information, and he did not know this until Deidrick told him. He stood there with a befuddled look. "Why didn't he call me directly?" Owen inquired, concerned that files pertaining to him and countless others been lost and thus far, no one brought it up until now. Deidrick shrugged his shoulders and replied with, "I don't know, I just main the phone and hand people their scripts. I figured he's going through the board right now trying to get the word out."

With the information, John and Owen exited the pharmacy and Owen held a look on his face. He turned to John and relayed what he learned, "They lost patient files and Dr. Mason called to check on my script, is this relevant to the case, Dr. Watson?"

John rubbed his chin as he pondered this. His and Sherlock's search for the mysterious Mustang resulted nothing more than an agitated Sherlock who stomped around his flat while muttering. Everyone they encountered that potentially saw the strange men could not begin to tell them what they looked at, only vague details. Heads or tails, John had nothing to go on and it bothered him.

While it could be coincidental, John had to consider everything. Even if this went nowhere, it was better than nothing was, and this piqued his interest.

Chewing on the bottom of his lip, John suggested to Owen, "Suppose we go visit Dr. Mason and see what happened."

"I'm not sure if I follow you, Dr. Watson," Owen tilted his head in confusion. John shrugged his shoulders as he said to Owen, "It's better than nothing. Sherlock will not answer his texts and I doubt he would offer any insight into this. Also, I'm curious myself, losing patient files is a serious offense."

Hailing a cab, the duo rode to Manchester Medical Clinic and Owen paid the fare. Upon exiting the cab, they talked about the plan.

"I hate to ask, Dr. Watson, but what is exactly the plan?" Owen inquired as they stood in front of the clinic.

While Sherlock had his ways of doing things, some of which gotten him into more trouble, John's grasped caution like a bible. John exercised this caution when dealing with cases, as he a medical doctor and soon-to-be father, extremely difficult considering his line of work.

With Sherlock busy, John had time to contemplate his own methods. If Sherlock been here, he would certainly make a scene to get what he wanted. John wanted none of it and looked at his situation at a different approach. Lying, something Sherlock famously exercised, out of his grasp. While Sherlock could lie about everything under the sun and only suffer a mild gunshot or a stab to his lower abdomen, John unable to act on it as he a doctor and this situation could cause irreversible harm to his license and practice. Therefore, he decided to take a page from Sherlock's own personal handbook. John may not be able to get the answers he needed on his own without risking his license, but if someone already established went inside and inquired, especially if it dealt with them…

"I can't go about asking about missing patient files," John admitted this to Owen. "I don't have any patients coming from Dr. Mason; it'll look suspicious on my part. But, you're already his patient and if your file is missing he'll have to answer you."

Owen understood his reasoning for not wanting to go into the clinic himself, given the risks it would impose for him asking those questions. Yet, he did not understand how it would work for him; he had no appointment with Dr. Mason.

"I understand, Dr. Watson, but how would this work; I don't have an appointment with him. I don't think he's even available," Owen responded while crossing his arms. John raised a finger at him, "He didn't talk to you personally about your patient files. He did not even call you about your prescription. Personally, I see it as a good reasoning to talk to him."

"What if it doesn't work, Dr. Watson?" Owen worried. "What then?"

"Then he'll have to put up with Sherlock and the board, if it comes to that Mr. Van Burton, I trust you this: he will wish he had told you the truth," John assured him. Owen agreed with him. If Dr. Mason would not tell him what happened, then Sherlock would make him talk. Given what Owen knew of from his short time spent with Sherlock, Dr. Mason is in for a show. Owen hoped it would not come to that, he rather like Dr. Mason, despite what happened.

John stayed outside while Owen entered the clinic.

Entering the clinic, the waiting room greeted Owen with rows of chairs. Some occupied by those waiting for appointments and those waiting on others, few talked amongst themselves while others sat buried in their mobiles.

At the counter browsing a magazine, a young woman sat in the red chair. Her brown eyes glided over the lamented pages and stopped when she heard footsteps approaching the counter. Looking up the woman smiled at Owen and greeted him, "Good evening, welcome to Manchester Medical. What can we do for you today, sir?"

Owen flashed a smile back and asked her, "Excuse me, is Dr. Mason in?"

The woman, identified as Dali on her nametag, thumbed through a logbook and stopped. She replied with, "Why yes, he is, how may I help you sir?"

"I was hoping to speak with him, is he available?" Owen continued.

Dali checked and nodded. She then asked, "Do you have an appointment with him?"

"Um, I was hoping to talk to him, sure," Owen replied, running a hand through his dark hair.

Dali nodded before typing on the computer on her right, hidden under the countertop. "What is your name, sir?" she inquired.

Owen cleared his throat as he said, "Owen Van Burton."

"Um, can you tell me your middle name?" Dali glanced over to him. Owen complied and said, "Gregory. Owen Gregory Van Burton."

Dali typed this into the computer and hummed. She waited for the screen to load and smiled at him as she looked up.

"Oh, of course, Mr. Van Burton, here it is. Just in time, too," Dali responded. "He'll see you now, Mr. Van Burton."


	8. Dr Mason and the Porcelain Man

Owen thought nothing could get any more peculiar, but it did. An appointment he did not recall setting up with Dr. Mason, very peculiar, if not odd. Like a character in a book, Owen never knew what to expect, either they hit a brick wall or something very peculiar occurs with no explanation. With his days becoming increasingly odd, Owen faced uncertainty.

Heading to the elevator for the third floor, Owen shot a quick text to John informing of the peculiar occurrence. As he stepped into the elevator, Owen's phone lost signal and the SMS hung in the app, the circle under the text continuously spinning.

"When did I have an appointment with Dr. Mason?" Owen asked himself. Usually, Dr. Mason called whenever his assistant scheduled an appointment, suppose his assistant forgot to call him.

The elevator stopped on the third floor and the sliding doors opened, Owen stepped through onto the textured floor before walking down the hallway. The hallways deathly quiet with the only footsteps his own. All the doors to the doctors' offices closed, whether they occupied, Owen never knew.

Dr. Mason's office, 708, seated at the end of the hall with his name etched in the door. Owen stepped toward the door. As he stood there, Owen faintly overheard a voice in the office. "What have I told you?" He heard someone say. "You're being reckless again!"

The ensuring conversation quieted and Owen heard nothing else.

Sheepishly, Owen wanted to knock on the door, but feared interrupting the conversation. He stood beside the door, away from the threshold, and waited. Within five minutes, the door swung open and a head poked out before looking around. Stopping when he saw Owen, Dr. Mason said, "Ah, Mr. Van Burton, I've been expecting you."

"Ah, I'm sorry, Dr. Mason, I didn't want to disturb you," Owen apologized. Dr. Mason laughed and gestured for him to enter his office. Owen done so and watched as Dr. Mason walked around his desk before sitting down in his plump blue chair.

Dr. Mason, a cool-headed character in his own right, someone that never raised his voice and held his decorum even on bad days. His light blue eyes glistened in the sunlight as he overlooked the office. Wrinkles on his face showed his age, but he seemed spy for a man in his fifties.

"I was hoping to see you, Mr. Van Burton," Dr. Mason began as he ran a hand through his greying hair. "How are the migraines?"

Owen coughed before answering, "They come and go now, Dr. Mason, but, I've been meaning to talk to you about something quite peculiar. I'm told that my prescription changed and I haven't been made ware of it until today."

Dr. Mason tilted his head and blinked. He then said to Owen, "I called you about it last night. As I recall you wanted to know when you needed the new prescription and I told you. You also asked if you could come visit me to discuss treatment plans."

Owen listened as his stomach churned and felt like it punched by a professional boxer. He certainly did not remember Dr. Mason calling him and the discussion about the change in prescription and the appointment.

"Dr. Mason, as your patient you have to tell me things, was my file missing?" Owen quickly asked Dr. Mason.

With light illuminating his eyes, Dr. Mason moved his head slightly, he calmly told Owen. "One of our interns gone into the filing room for some files under orders from one of the doctors, nothing special from that I can tell you, Mr. Van Burton. He was supposed to return to the main area when he had them, but he never turned up. Per protocols security went looking for him and found him wandering the floor, the poor man had a partial seizure. Fortunately, he recovered, but we could never find the files. We believed while in his state he might have accidentally left them in an open area. Hence, it being a police matter, as per protocols, I told you all this last night, Mr. Van Burton."

Owen's mind race with trains of thought as his stomach swelled with anxiety and fear. Dr. Mason did not talk to him, Owen was sure of it, and whomever Dr. Mason did talk to was the person responsible for this madness.

Coughing, Owen attempted to remain calm as he continued speaking with Dr. Mason. He then asked Dr. Mason while shifting in his chair, "How many _other_ files went missing, Dr. Mason?"

"I assure you that the police are handling this with padded gloves, Mr. Van Burton," Dr. Mason stated as he popped his knuckles. "Those files will turn up sometime soon and I assure you that we will carefully alert those affected."

Hearing this did nothing to quell the anxieties within Owen and it showed.

Dr. Mason noticed this discomfort and frowned. "Is something the matter, Mr. Van Burton?" he asked Owen. Owen shrunk in his seat as he unable to give any quick responses.

"Dr. Mason, d-did I say anything else when you called me last night, anything at all, anything that dealt with my missing file?" Owen asked finally.

Dr. Mason furrowed his brow at him and finally said, "Mr. Van Burton, you begun to worry me, you must tell me what is going on. I am your doctor and it is my duty to ensure the safety and wellness of my patients."

Owen jumped up from his chair and his mind numbed, the sheer idea someone impersonated him and gained personal information unsettled him. How or why anyone wanted his information and what he or she was planning to do with it, seemed to lurk in the corner of his mind.

It unsettled Owen more, this all happened when he was asleep, or too busy to notice the indiscretion. Someone gained knowledge that clearly benefitted them and worse of all, they knew everything there was about Owen and perhaps dozens of others.

"Dr. Mason, I don't want to sound like a madman, but you weren't talking to me last night," Owen pointed at him as he attempted to talk calmly. Several theories raced around in Owen's head, all conflicting with one another, attempting to make sense of this malady.

Dr. Mason tilted his head, his wrinkly pale skin around his neck pulling on itself as he stared at Owen with confusion. He questioned the statement Owen made with doubt. "Mr. Van Burton, it was your mobile number, I made no mistake about that. If that wasn't you I was talking to, and then who was I speaking with?"

Owen and Dr. Mason knew each other for a while now and Dr. Mason always gave him the benefit of the doubt, but Owen never told him about the break-ins and the uneasy feelings he had. So, wanting to clear up any confusion and prevent Dr. Mason from assuming the worst, Owen explained.

Owen looked at his feet and like when he first told his story to Sherlock, he told a simplified version to Dr. Mason, "Dr. Mason, I know this is going to sound crazy, and believe me it will, someone has been breaking into my flat and now from what you've told me, they've been impersonating me."

Dr. Mason listened to this serious claim. Over the course of his years working as a doctor, Dr. Mason heard all sorts of things from past patients, and Owen coherently telling him about the maladies plaguing him was the first of its kind.

"This is a serious claim, Mr. Van Burton, if what you're telling me is true, and then surely you contacted the police about this," Dr. Mason reasoned as Owen shook his head despondently.

Owen frowned as he told the short version of reasons why it did not work. "They don't believe me, Dr. Mason, I know this is maddening to you, but I've run myself rag trying to find proof. I even hired a detective to help me, although his methods seems somewhat opaque compared to LPD. He's my only hope, Dr. Mason."

Hearing this Dr. Mason crossed his fingers and slowly nodded, this sliver of understanding made a huge difference to Owen. His doctor believed him, though Owen never told him this before, and it comforted Owen.

Concerned Dr. Mason asked him, "If you don't mind me asking, who is the detective?"

"Oh, Mr. Holmes—Uh, Sherlock Holmes—He's quite an odd fellow, though, but he's been the only one to take interest in my case," Owen elaborated for the doctor. "I know it sounds outrageous, but I'm at the end of my ropes."

Uncrossing his fingers, Dr. Mason rubbed his light blue eyes and nodded again. "It sounds serious, are you alright, Mr. Van Burton?" Dr. Mason worried and Owen assured him. Owen smiled and responded with, "I'm fine, Dr. Mason, I trust Mr. Holmes with my case."

"Only if you're sure, Mr. Van Burton," Dr. Mason stood up from his chair and walked Owen out of his office.

He said to Owen just before he left, "If it's true someone used your mobile, then I can't use your number anymore. I don't have any other number but that one is there a way to contact you?"

Owen's eyes glistened when he had an idea. "Just the one, but, don't be worried if he picks up," Owen quickly said to Dr. Mason as he pulled out his mobile and showed Dr. Mason Sherlock's number.

Memorizing the number, Dr. Mason looked at him with concern. "Is there name attached to this number, Mr. Van Burton?" He asked Owen.

Owen nodded and replied with, "It's Mr. Holmes' number, but, I'm sure he won't mind. In fact, you can trust him, I assure you."

"I must remind you that I am not responsible if any indiscretions arise from this, Mr. Van Burton," Dr. Mason warned him.

Owen nodded knowingly and bowed his head lightly as he stuffed his mobile into his pocket. "Thank you, for listening to me Dr. Mason," he thanked him. Dr. Mason waved his hand and responded with, "It's my job to listen, Mr. Van Burton. Oh, one more thing, before you leave."

Dr. Mason handed Owen a script for his altered prescription. "It'll be a slightly higher dose, so you know, but otherwise same instructions. The side-effects are different, I will warn, don't do anything strenuous until you know how the side effects affect you," Dr. Mason warned him.

Taking the script into his hand, Owen nodded and carefully stuffed the script into his pocket. Saying farewell to Dr. Mason, Owen turned around and walked down toward the elevator.

Exhaling, Owen blinked several times as he tried understanding everything that happened.

In his mind, he tried to piece together the puzzle in the fashion Sherlock would and the picture never quite came to him.

"Was it a dream?" Owen wondered referring to the dream, he had last night that seemed to leave him with more questions. In his dream, he heard screaming, female, but Shelia was okay. Looking at his palms, Owen did not see anything wrong with them.

Rubbing his face, Owen groaned as he stepped into the elevator. Music in the elevator, another Red Children song, from their early 80s album "Sweet Maladies", played as Owen tilted his head up and felt fluid in his mind running down his head.

* * *

"I've got two strong arms.

Daughters on the left, sons on the right, time to make things our own.

Sons of the day and daughters of the night, one of a kind and they are all mine.

Ode to dear Mother Marie, praise her excellence for it was her love that brought them to me.

What's my name?

* * *

I'm in your dreams,

I can hear your thoughts,

No matter where you hide,

No matter who's on your side,

I have you in my sight.

I will drag you into the veil of the night.

No one will hear of your maladies, your plights,

They won't even know you disappeared.

That much you will know, you will never, never escape from me.

What's my name?

* * *

I got plans for us,

Knights in the galleries,

Soldiers in the skies,

The stars are marked,

Time to collect them all,

Put them where they belong.

Ode to Her Majesty, the Divine,

For giving us our cloth,

No man shall take from our grasp.

We will rewrite your history,

Seasons shall change when we please,

Your thoughts are our memories,

Your names are our melodies.

Praise Our Majesty for her gifts,

I did my part,

Now time to pray,

Before we carry on,

What's my name?"

* * *

The elevator door slid open and Owen walked through. Upon exiting the clinic, Owen tracked down John, while contemplating his situation.

There waiting at the corner of the sidewalk on the right side of the clinic, John, who busied himself in texting Mary, he stopped when he noticed Owen walking toward him with a bemused look on his face.

"How did it go?" John asked him.

Owen exhaled and rubbed his throbbing head. He explained to John, "He called me, Dr. Watson; he swore he called my mobile to tell me about the prescription change and the missing file. I don't remember talking to him."

John flinched and frowned before saying, "Did you check your call logs and see if he's telling the truth?"

Owen done so and froze, around the time he was asleep; a call went through on his mobile from Dr. Mason. Owen showed this to John who froze in place as well.

"Dr. Watson, they were _in_ my flat last night. My god, they were in _my_ flat!" Owen hissed as he then remembered. "Oh my god, what are we going to do?"

John swiped on his mobile and quickly texted Sherlock about what happened. In true fashion, Sherlock didn't respond initially. Meanwhile, Owen and John walked out of the clinic with looks on their face.

"Mr. Van Burton, I believe for your safety you cannot remain in your flat," John alerted Owen.

Owen frowned at this and responded, "I don't have much money, Dr. Watson, and I don't have anywhere else to go."

John shook his head and chewed on the bottom of his lip as he attempted to sort out their dilemma. He then sighed and offered. "Assuming Sherlock doesn't budge or wants to use you as bait, you're welcome to stay at my home," he said to Owen.

Owen tilted his head at this offer. "Are you positive, Dr. Watson, I rather not take you on this offer if you're not," he insists as John shook his head.

"It'd be a crime to send you off without so much a way to defend yourself. Its murder to not offer shelter," John waved his hand.

Owen smiled at this and nodded his head profusely. "Thank you, Dr. Watson," he thanked him repeatedly.

Soon after, a text from Sherlock appeared on John's mobile. He instructed them to come to his flat and not to dawdle.

"Come on, let's see what the crazy man has to say," John lead the way to the cab.


	9. The Porcelain Plan Pt 1

"They were in _my_ flat when I was sleeping," Owen gritted his teeth as they sat in the cab as it drove through the atrocious traffic. "How did I not wake up, how could I have not heard them come through the door?"

Fear settled in Owen's gut as his mind cowered in terror at the sheer thought that while he slept they came into his flat and for reasons unknown impersonated him. A thought trailed in his mind, one that sent shivers down his spine. Like wolves, they had an opportunity to kill him as if he were a sleeping lamb, but they didn't, they left him alone. The idea they let him live, made Owen nauseated, because of the plethora of possible reasons as to why they done it. More specifically, they wanted him alive, why, Owen wouldn't dare fathom.

"I don't know for sure myself, Mr. van Burton, however I must remind you that often our cases come with twists and turns that might make you cringe with fright and disgust. We must consider all possibilities, even if they seem outrageous," John began as he peered out of his window, glimpsing at the lines of vehicles on the roads as the cab came to a halt. "Unfortunately, we have to consider the possibility that someone closest to you is responsible, either directly or indirectly. What I mean is, Mr. Van Burton, is that we have to consider the possibility that Dr. Mason is part of this, somehow."

The statement unsettled Owen, but his mind refused to accept the possibility and attempted to rationalize the possibility as false. Though he did give off a different vibe, Dr. Mason was genuinely concerned about the welfare of his patients. Most doctors intentionally kept their relationships with patients strict; Dr. Mason treated all patients equal and became friends with dozens of them. The possibility presented by John seemed impossible to consider, as Owen knew Dr. Mason for months. If Dr. Mason behind this as John suggested, Owen would have known when he started seeing him for treatment.

"I don't see how he could've been involved, Dr. Watson," Owen shook his head apprehensively. "I would've known, something would've been off and I'd seen it!"

John then explained what he learned over the years being the assistant to the Great Detective. "I know these sounds impossible, but believe me Mr. Van Burton, when I say I've truly seen it all. One case, a bloke didn't believe Sherlock, that his psychiatrist used him to commit murder. He been dealing with personal problems and went for help, but the psychiatrist used his maladies as basis for the murder of his wife. The police pointed his way shortly thereafter and the psychiatrist tried playing it off, until Sherlock caught wind. Even after evidence of the psychiatrist's scheme, he wouldn't believe Sherlock, despite everything else, and only when Sherlock convinced him by playing into his maladies did he understand," he rubbed his sore eyes as Owen listened to him. "So, please consider all options, even if it sounds farfetched. I know it may be hard, but trust me, Mr. Van Burton, it is possible."

Owen frowned as he listened to John's plea. He was right, as much as Owen hated the thought, he was right. With everything happening, with the twists and turns amongst everything else, and despite Owen's insistence, the case could turn everyone on their heads with a twist. Regardless, Owen clung to the small hope that he could still trust Dr. Mason.

Arriving at 221B Baker Street, John paid the fare and both he and Owen stepped out of the cab. Owen glanced around, no one there or at least anyone suspicious, just people going about their business. Following John into the building, Mrs. Hudson greeted them with a concerned look.

"Must he stomp around up there?" She questioned as John lightly tapped his feet against the mat near the door. "It sounds like I'm renting to a giant!"

"Well, he's certainly tall like a giant, Mrs. Hudson," Owen made light of it. Mrs. Hudson sighed and shrugged her boney shoulders before asking to him and John, "How are things on your end?"

"You don't want to know," John sighed as he began walking up the stairs with Owen trailing behind.

Reaching the top of the stairs, they heard indistinct stomping noises behind the closed door. John commented that it probably meant Sherlock found nothing and was in one of his moods, warning Owen to exercise precise caution as Sherlock often snapped at anyone who so much tries making light of the situation. Jiggling the doorknob, John pushed it open and Sherlock walked around the flat with a scoured look firmly on his face.

"Dr. Mason's clean or so he claims," John announced while Sherlock walked around with his arms behind his back with his eyes fixated on the ground. "Did you read my texts?"

Sherlock let out a grunt that came out like a gurgle, he was agitated and it showed on his face. Owen uncomfortably moved with John toward the inner room and stopped when Sherlock suddenly looked at John.

"Found nothing, no files, nothing, ran around ragged and nothing!" Sherlock angrily declared as he shook his head, his curls bobbing up and down while he mumbled incoherently to himself.

John crossed his arms, concerned, and asked, "What do you mean, nothing, didn't they have his files?"

"Nothing…!" Sherlock snapped at him. Only a minute until he realized what he done, before Sherlock blinked several times, and apologized for his outburst before stomping to his plush chair and sitting down with a scowl firmly on his face while John and Owen looked on.

Owen sheepishly coughed and inquired, "What do you mean they don't have my files, they should've been… somewhere, surely."

Sherlock groaned and rubbed his throbbing brow, the only answer Owen got from him before John mentioned a pressing matter. "They were in his flat when he was sleeping, Sherlock, clearly they aren't afraid of entering his flat even when he's there. If they came once, they'll likely do it again, I only fear what reasons they had for doing so," John rubbed his chin before glimpsing at Owen who shirked in his spot as Sherlock eyed him from across the room.

"Mr. van Burton, can you tell us at all what happened last night?" Sherlock gestured at him. "Surely, something odd happened, they were in your flat, how could you've possibly slept through that?!"

Owen flinched at Sherlock's reaction and sheepishly responded with, "Well, I don't know if it helps much, but I had a weird dream."

Sherlock bolted from his chair and grabbed Owen's arms. His light blue eyes pierced Owen's hazel eyes as he said quickly, "Well, tell me, what it that your subconscious mind warped and weaved was?"

John came between them and Sherlock released Owen. Owen crossed his arms as he thought back to his odd dream. "Well, I remember being at my desk, I was working on some forms for a website when I fell asleep. I don't know the time, but, it was pretty late, I think. I swore, though, I heard blood curling screaming, and then footsteps at my door. I couldn't move, not even an inch, but I could move my eyes, only barely," Owen began as Sherlock began pacing around the room again. Continuing, Owen pulled on his collar as uneasiness set in. "The door opens and there were these shadows, at first I couldn't tell how many there were they were huddled together. They split off into three shadows, two came toward me and one went over where Frank sat. I don't know what's going on, Mr. Holmes, I don't even know if it were a dream or not!"

"You heard screaming, did you recognize it?" Sherlock suddenly asked.

Owen thought back, the screaming was from a woman. He didn't recognize it at all, but doubt casted in his mind where it come from. Could've been a dream… or someone was really screaming and he didn't know about it until it was too late.

"I didn't recognize it, but I did check on Shelia," Owen mentioned as he rubbed his brow. "She seemed fine, yelling at me to push off and stop bothering her. Oh god, I don't know anymore, whether I'm dreaming or hearing someone getting killed!"

Sherlock raised a hand and calmed him; Owen frowned and uncrossed his arms. Shaking his head, Owen stated, "I don't know what I dreamt, but I sure as hell know I didn't call Dr. Mason last night."

"What did Dr. Mason say in the matter, Mr. Van Burton?" Sherlock suddenly inquired.

Owen sighed and answered with, "He said _I_ talked with him about my prescription, how he changed it and wanted to discuss the details with me in my upcoming appointment."

"Do you trust him?" Sherlock suddenly asked. Owen nodded and Sherlock snorted at this. Owen tilted his head in confusion as Sherlock reminded him, "Never fully trust a person, even if you knew them from birth!"

Owen responded with, "How could I not, he's my doctor, and he's the third person who believes me!"

Sherlock stopped and stared at him, confusion in his eyes and face. He walked over toward him and gestured while saying, "He believed you, your doctor, and you never told him about what went on until now?"

"Generally, patients don't talk nonsense unless they're loony, Mr. Holmes," Owen reminded him. "I didn't want to tell him then because what would've been the point?"

Sherlock scolded him with, "If he was involved with this, you tipped him off, Mr. Van Burton!"

Owen pointed at him and coolly summed, "He was my doctor, if I didn't tell him now and he finds out on his own later without getting the story where does that leave me?"

John raised his hand before interjecting with, "Sherlock, we need to discuss something pressing. If they're coming into his flat even when he's there, then his safety is at risk."

"Exactly," Sherlock pointed at him, causing confusion amongst him and Owen. Sherlock raised a finger before explaining his deduction. "If they're becoming bolder, then that means they'll come back again. This is an opportunity for a slip-up, something we desperately need," he smiled and the way he smiled sent shivers down Owen's spine. Sherlock had an idea and it definitely involved him.  
Sherlock gestured for them to sit as he went over the plan. As he did, he begun making a pot of tea for them. Owen looked at John most of the time as they heard the plan and he had no idea what the audacious plan entailed either. They were in for a show as water boiled on the oven.

"They're becoming bolder; they're willing to come into your flat while you sleep. Why don't they kill you, off with your head there, why are they keeping you alive?" Sherlock loudly asked them as he was in the kitchen rummaging through his kitchen for their cups and plates. "Why are they doing this, you're not anything special, you don't have anything of value. You're an internet accountant, you always do your research before you help with tax forms and the like, never helping websites not based in the EU. Something drew them to you, but you don't know what, and only they have the answers."

It made sense to Owen; he was nothing special, and all he did for most of his time was forms, nothing that would intrigue strangers. What did he know or have they wanted, why the secrecy and what did this all mean?

"Perhaps you helped a website that dealt with unscrupulous matters and they feel you're a threat. Perhaps the owners felt cheated and want their money back. Or have you unknowingly helped a government agency that now watches you because they think you're a threat to national security?" Sherlock continued as clattering noises came from the kitchen as he grabbed for the sugar cubes and cream.

It never dawned on Owen to consider that. Yet, he was always careful when he done things for websites. He always researched them from the ground up to consider helping them. Although, what website had the means to send people his way and what would they want him for?

"I don't know anyone who'd want to send for people, Mr. Holmes, and as you said, I'm always careful," Owen shook his head as he waited for Sherlock to respond. He did not, at least not as quickly, Sherlock tended to the teapot, sticking some teabags into it before pouring the boiled water in increments, allowing the tea some time to steep before he poured the rest in.

John turned to Owen and asked him, "How do you receive the funds from your services?"

Owen answered, "They pay me through my PencePal account, and I always received their invoices."

"So, nothing odd going on, no, no chargebacks or any disputes regarding payment, anything to indicate someone less than satisfied with your services or your charges?" John continued.

Owen rubbed the back of his head before shaking it, nothing came to mind, he always received his dues on time and the only time there were problems was when PencePal had server outages, disallowing anyone to make or receive transactions through them. Other than that, nothing came to mind.

"So, if not about money, what about knowledge, they allow you a look in their finances, surely you noticed a discrepancy and attempted to flag them, only for them to rudely shut up about it?" Sherlock called out from the kitchen.

Owen continued to think and he continued to draw blanks, nothing of that nature, everything was in order. Even if there was a problem, Owen couldn't do much legal wise. If there were discrepancies, they didn't have to worry about him bringing it up.  
"What does it leave us?" John wondered. Owen answered with, "Nothing."

"Not necessary nothing, Mr. van Burton, there is something going on and you're in the center of it," Sherlock came out of the kitchen carrying a platter. On it, a large teapot, three cups and their respected plates, a platter of sugar, and a small container of cream. He rested it on the table and gestured Owen and John to take a cup. Doing so, Owen poured some cream at the bottom of the teacup first so the cream didn't scold from the tea. As he poured his tea before carefully handing the teapot to John, Sherlock pointed at him.

"Those files haven't turned up at all, have they?" Sherlock inquired. Owen shook his head in response.

Sherlock had a look on his face and he kept looking between Owen and John. It took no more than a minute before John asked Sherlock, "You want us to look for those files?"

Sherlock waved his hand before saying, "No, no, not Mr. van Burton, you John, you go look for the files. Mr. van Burton will return to his flat."

Instantly they objected. "Mr. Holmes, did you not hear what we said, they're coming into my flat while I sleep now!" Owen pointed. John then interjected with his own concern. "I cannot risk my license looking for those files, Sherlock, I can't even find out what happened without someone asking for it!" John reminded him.

Sherlock firmly told them to stop before he revealed his plan. "I will go with Mr. van Burton to his flat. He will go about his day as if I'm not there and when they come back I will be there to catch them," Sherlock points. He received looks from John and Owen before he rolled his eyes and flatly asked what was wrong with his plan.

"Mr. Holmes, they won't come if you're in the flat," Owen mentioned while John crossed his arms in disbelief. "You expect me to risk my license and where in your plan has it where I won't lose it if someone stumbles upon me searching?" John stared intently at Sherlock.

Sherlock groaned and rubbed his eyes, in his purview it was like talking to children, stubborn children at all. "I will not go _in_ his flat with him; I will watch it from a safe distance. As for you, John, you may ask the badger for his help. Just make up some jumble, tell him you're investigating fraud too. Anything at all, but do not let him swoop in here with his badger nose and teeth chattering on and on about risks and turns!" he watched them react with mild interest.

"I'm sure the badger can help with my questions, as well," John slurped from his teacup. "No promises he won't show up here. You know him as well as I do, Sherlock."

"But, Mr. Holmes, how are you going to watch me without actually being in my flat, Sheila won't let you stay anywhere near the flat. She'll call the police on you!" Owen remembered the constant threats Shelia would have for anyone or anything.

Sherlock gave a toothy grin before mentioning, "I never use doors for these situations, Mr. van Burton."


	10. The Porcelain Plan Pt 2

Owen left Sherlock's flat first. Sherlock gave him enough money for a ride back to his flat. Hailing a cab, Owen entered and gave his address before asking the cabby to take him by Wooster's Pharmacy first. Settling in his seat, Owen watched the blur of vehicles as the cab passed through the congested streets of London.

In his mind, he fathomed who or what wanted him and why. When he used drugs, he never stole money or anything valuable, so it could not been a vengeful victim of theft. He never hurt anyone while under the effects of cocaine; he carefully hid himself away from the world. In the programs he once participated in, he never made any friends or even enemies; he generally kept to himself and only spoke when asked. Other than that, nothing from his days of drug use turned up anything substantial.

When Owen worked for Bruno, he never really spoke unless towards customers when he was the baker or if Bruno needed financial advice. No one ever saw him outside his old office and no one really paid any attention to him when he took orders, nothing from that.

Websites, nothing either, Owen never encountered any issues from working as an internet accountant. No one really talked to him, except through countless inquires and emails, and he was always tact when submitting forms for their approval.

Old lovers, why would they come back for him, he barely held any relationship longer than four weeks.

It dawned on Owen how unusual his situation really was.

He had nothing, nothing at all, nothing anyone really wanted. No information, no valuables, and nothing in his bank account for anyone to wag their tails!

"What do they want?" Owen wondered as he briefly closed his eyes.

The clouds crawled into the area, darkening it, as the cab pulled up to Wooster's Pharmacy. Owen stepped out and headed inside, the only one there was Deidrick and he kept himself busy by reading a magazine while having a small portable TV behind him playing music videos. Stepping to the counter, Owen coughed and Deidrick lowered the magazine. "Oh, it's you, again," Deidrick mused as he closed the magazine and threw it on the counter. "Whatcha want now and where's Arthur Dent, thought he'd skulk in with you."

Owen shook his head before replying, "I'm here to pick up my new prescription. Dr. Watson isn't with me right now, if that's what you're wondering."

"Right, yeah, your prescription," Deidrick nods before gesturing his hand for the script and Owen handed it to him. Deidrick read the prescription before nodding again; he stuffed the prescription into his pocket. Hopping up from his chair, he told Owen as he neared the back room door, "It'll be a few minutes 'cause it's way in the back."

Owen watched him disappear into the back room, keys jingling as Deidrick took them from his belt loop.

Waiting by the counter, Owen took time and composed himself. Running his hand through his hair, he felt his stringy hair part in between his fingers.

It weighed heavily on his mind, everything. Owen endlessly asked this question ever since it all began, why a simple ordinary man became a target, for no apparent reason.

What purpose did stalking him serve, if there was any purpose, and what was the end game, if there was one?

It dawned on Owen; he did not know whom to trust. Of course, he trusted Sherlock and John, but he considered the others in his life. Mrs. Hudson, an associate of Sherlock and John, Owen trusted her, no doubt, as she was kind to him, and certainly no part of this.

Owen trusted Sheila, while she lied about things and refused to budge, Owen understood her reasonings. She was afraid and Owen did not blame her for hiding it, whoever these men were, no doubt were not above tormenting elderly women.

Deidrick, there'd be no way for him to mess with Owen's prescription without someone finding out, and even if he was sly, someone like Sherlock would've found out easily.

Dr. Mason, of course, Owen trusted him, he was his doctor and there could not be a reason for him to do any of this. What would he have gained from this scheme, he knew about Owen's financial woes and misfortune, what was the end goal?

Even though John warned him about the possibilities, Owen continued to cling onto some hope that Dr. Mason was not part of this.

Further going down the list of potential suspects, Owen thought about his parents. He never really thought about them much since the incident, and he doubted it was they. They never came around, sent mail, called, or any of that, they have practically written him out of their lives at this point. Why would they change their minds now?

It spun around in Owen's head dizzying and it made his stomach form knots. Nothing made sense in this and Owen prayed for it to all end.

Taking his mind off the matter, Owen glanced at the portable TV Deidrick kept.

A music video from the Red Children played, filmed in black and white, the music video opened with singer, Leon McDowell, going through a long hallway with a checkered floor. True to the 80s Leon had a mullet and his outfit a mix of 80s businessperson with his suspenders and trousers, but a shade of casual. Tight black shirt with short sleeves just shy above his forearms, black fingerless gloves, shiny belt, and black boots, made Leon stand out in the white sterile halls as he walked, his feet disappearing over the black parts of the floor.

Synthesizers and the like played in the background as the singer traversed the strange world, some believed, his subconscious mind.

"I've got two strong arms. Daughters on the left, sons of the right, time to make things our own," he sung as he passed opened doors. On his left, there were young girls in white dresses and wore bows playing ring around the roses. On his right, there were young boys in suits with ties holding rather large mobile phones and suitcases. Leon continued walking through the hallway, passing doorways with various scenes happening within each room, some nonsensical and others based on different media such as Alice in Wonderland.

Passing through another set of doorways, Leon sung, "Sons of the day and daughters of the night, one of a kind, and they're all mine!"

He held out his arms as a string of children walked past him, boys wearing dark colored suits and girls wearing light colored dresses. After they disappeared through a doorway, the door closes, and Leon continues walking until he comes across a staircase.

Hurrying up the stairs, the buckles of his suspenders glistening in the light, Leon finds himself in another place entirely, a throne room. There, a woman sat upon her throne with a powdered wig bigger than her head, waving her fan as servants serve tea and biscuits. Leon rolls his eyes before the guards circled him, pointing their weapons at him.

A secret trapdoor opened and sent Leon on a downward spiral on a slide that spun around a pillar until it ended. Leon appears in a normal den, where a woman reading a newspaper sat on the couch. Smiling warmly, Leon sings, "Ode to dear Mother Marie, praise her excellence for it was her love that brought them to me."

The woman turns her head toward him and blows a kiss at him, he catches it with his gloved hands and he smiles.

A trapdoor opens yet again, sending him down another slide until he rolled into a dark room with a glowing question mark, confused, Leon looks around, visibly concerned as he sings, "What's my name?"

Strange men appeared before Leon, wth the black and white film and the barely lit room they were impossible to see. Only their mouths were barely visible. As they talked, instead of their own voices, it was Leon's. "I'm in your dreams, I can hear your thoughts, no matter where you hide, and no matter who's on your side, I have you in my sight," the strange men mouthed, though, their mouths barely moved.

Afraid, Leon turns and runs into the darkness, confused and alone, he had nowhere to run. Yet, he continued to run until coming across the sole door at the end of the darkened area. Attempting to pry open the door, with Leon's back turned, the strange men close in on him, saying in unison, "I will drag you into the veil of the night, no one will ever hear of your maladies, your plights, they won't even know you disappeared. That much you will know, you will never, never escape from me."

Several arms stretched out and grabbed Leon, dragging him into the night, Leon shouting, "What's my name?"

The scene changes and Leon tied to a chair with the strange men circling him, their faces in the shadows now, not even their mouths visible anymore. As Leon struggled in his chair, the strange men say, "I got plans for us, knights in the galleries, soldiers in the skies. The stars are marked, time to collect them all, put them where they belong."

The scene changed between knights in armor standing in an art gallery with mannequins standing in place of people, before it changed to toy soldiers cascading down from the skies in parachutes, and stop with the appearance of a black board with Styrofoam stars stuck to it, famous actors and singers' names drawn on them. Multiple hands from all angles appeared and grabbed every star, until there was none left.

Leon continued to struggle in the chair until dragged toward a corridor and pulled into the same throne room from earlier in the music video, with the woman on the throne crossing her arms. "Ode to Her Majesty, the Divine, for giving us our cloth, no man shall take from our grasp," the strange men declared as they stood in front of the woman, their faces hidden in shadows, but their different colored Victorian coats visibly seen. They each pointed at their respected coats, before the camera panned to Leon who only rolled his eyes.

Suddenly, one of the strange men appears behind Leon and dragged him and the chair toward another area where there were typewriters typing by themselves, infinite paper pouring out of them. The strange man tells Leon, "We will rewrite your history."

He threw Leon and the chair into another room, this time, a park with several trees, each different from the last. The strange man declares to Leon, "Seasons shall change when we please."

The scene fades and another fades in, with Leon singing over the scene of a reel of various home movies cut together with some cartoons at the time. "Your thoughts are our memories."

Leon suddenly slides down musical notes, having broken free from his captors. Sliding down the notes, Leon manages to say, "Your names are our melodies."

The musical notes revealed having Leon's name in them, until the scene changes yet again to the same throne room with bundles of gifts at the feet of the woman. Leon wore the same clothing at the strange men. The strange men behind him say as they bowed before the woman, their faces obscured, still. "Praise Our Majesty for her gifts."

Leon tilted his head; he had a huge grin on his face, almost a Glasgow smile. He says, "I did my part, now time to pray, before we carry on."

The scene shifts to him and the strange men on Main Street, Leon visibly confused as he sings, "What's my name?"

They start marching down Main Street, Leon leading them with a strange look on his face. He carried in his right hand, a rapier, as he pointed it, marching forward with the strange men trailing behind. As Leon sung again, his voice noticeably became wavered and stilted.

"I got time to kill, ready to storm the hill, sons and daughters ready for the thrill. You know the drill. You disappear into the veil of the night. They will never never, find you again. For you see, it is the beginning of your plight. It becomes apparent and you will see as they claim your mind… what's my name?" Leon looks at the camera, his eyes pale like a dead fish.

Two of the strange men holding piccolos played an instrumental tune of the song as they marched. There were drums, the twangs of a guitar before the chorus started again, and the previous scenes played from the end toward the beginning. "No, they will never, never find you," Leon trailed until the music video stopped at the beginning where Leon closes a door behind him and walks off. On the door, a hanging sign visible that read in big bold letters, "Out of Service".

When the commercial for crisps started, Owen held his head as he felt the piccolos in his head, the tune beating against his mind. He held the counter for support while his head spun and he felt the muscles in his brain shudder. Owen blinked several times while holding onto the counter until the pain dissipated and the feeling went away. Exhaling, Owen attempted to remain calm, for his sake, and it barely worked.

"Sorry for the wait," Deidrick reappeared with a bag in his hand. "There was a problem with the cage."

The cage as Deidrick referred to as, was a heavily locked down area of the back room where heavily regulated medication sat in until needed. Only those authorized were allowed in and around it, anyone else, would've been arrested. On a whim, Owen asked Deidrick, "What problem?"

"Ah, damn door isn't closing properly anymore, you can close it and lock it, but somehow it'll swing right open. I made it known to the people above me, they're going to send someone out to fix it first thing," Deidrick sighed as he shook his head. "So, I've been in the back trying to make sure the damn thing locks, it almost locked me in the first time around!"

Deidrick typed in the prescription into the computer, verifying it once more, before a receipt spouted out from the register and he grabbed it before stuffing it into the bag. Handing the bag to Owen, Deidrick reminded Owen, "Remember, higher dosage, gonna mess with you a little bit."

Owen nods before replying with, "What doesn't have side effects these days?"

"Water," Deidrick grins before waving Owen off.

Stepping out of the pharmacy, Owen hurried into the cab as rain poured. The cab pulled from the curb and it took thirty minutes before it arrived at Owen's flat. After paying the cabby his fare, Owen dove out of the cab and hurried up the steps of his flat. Upon entering, he rubbed the soles of his shoes against the welcome mat, before slowly walking toward the staircase. He stopped for a short minute, hearing at the end of the hall a soap opera behind closed doors. Sheila must've been watching reruns of her favorite soaps, she always done that, especially during droughts.

Walking up the stairs, Owen rubbed his eyes as he yawned. All he wanted to do was relax, watch some telly, and get some sleep. If there were forms or consultation, it would have to wait until tomorrow; Owen felt no desire to do anything laborious.

Fishing out his key, Owen unlocked his flat and entered. He tossed the bag of his prescription on the couch before sitting down beside it. Throwing off his shoes and socks, Owen turned on the telly, and flipped channels until he found something interesting.

Putting his feet up on the table, Owen rubbed his eyes. He trusted Sherlock to warn him of any danger and since there were no messages on his phone, it meant that there was no danger.

Once relaxed enough, Owen pushed himself off the couch and shuffled toward the kitchen. He grabbed for some salted caramel yogurt and a bottle of water before returning to his couch. Watching a game show, Owen deduced the actual costs of the prizes people won more specifically the cars and trips they always displayed. Most of the time, people get a wake-up call when they realize they cannot afford the cost to redeem their prize and forfeit it instead, leaving several dozen objects worth well over hundreds and thousands in warehouses.

By the time the show ended, Owen finished his yogurt and water. He got up and shuffled toward the rubbish bin, tossing them in before stretching out his arms and popping his back.

Checking his phone again, no texts from Sherlock, not even an email. Nothing from John, either, and Owen wasn't sure what to make of it. He reasoned, if anything were wrong, either one or both would've appeared at his door if not breaking it down.

Rubbing his eyes, Owen felt a spell of sleepiness wash over him; he couldn't shake it off as easily as before and decided that it was time for him to go to sleep.

Preparing for bed, Owen grabbed for his bottle and uncapped it. Fishing out two pills, Owen popped them into his mouth before washing them down with a glass of water. Feeling the pills reach his stomach, Owen groaned as he stretched, shuffling around his flat. He cleaned things up, stacking books, tossing rubbish, amongst other things.

Only when he was satisfied the flat been cleaned enough, Owen shuffled toward the table where Frank sat and carefully picked him up.

"I think I'll sleep in me bed tonight, Frank," Owen mentioned to Frank as he carried the porcelain turtle into his bedroom.

Placing the turtle on his small dresser, Owen yawned as he blinked several times.

Dr. Mason mentioned there were side effects, drowsiness one of them, and Owen felt it flow throughout his body as he shuffled toward his small bed. Throwing his feet up as he collapsed onto his bed, Owen rested his head against the plush pillows. His heavy eyes closed while he greedily pulled the comforter up to his neck.

He softly began to snore and all was well when…

His eyes snapped open when he heard a sneeze; they glided around the room, and found no one there. "Oh, excuse me," said a voice. Owen pushed himself up and alarms rung in his head.

His eyes moved around the room, afraid at every shadow or darkened area, until they stopped.

"What, did I wake ya up, ya loony?" Owen heard the voice again. "Bloody idiot, one little sneezes and you act like a soldier with PSTD!"

Owen jumped from his bed and searched his room, under his bed, in his closet, nothing there. Tried the small corners, once again, Owen found no one, not even signs.

Owen frowned and shuffled back to his bed and nearly leapt out of his room when he heard the voice yet again. "What're ya doing, you half-wit?" He heard coming from his dresser.

"I've finally lost it," Owen said to himself. "I've finally gone mad!"

"You were always mad, ya idiot," he heard the voice again.

Owen braced himself as he shuffled toward the dresser and asked, "W-who are you, what do you want, I've got not money left in my pocket!"

He heard laughing as he stepped toward the dresser and stood there, blinking. "Why would I need money?" He heard the voice laugh. "Have you forgotten who I am, already?"

Owen mouthed his name and he laughed aloud, "How many Franks do you know, I'm the only one who has to talk to you all the time!"

Slowly, Owen's hazel eyes moved down toward the top of the dresser and froze.

Owen always talked in place of the porcelain turtle, gave him a posh upper crust accent and everything else, but, something went horribly wrong!

Frank was speaking all himself, not Owen, and Owen stood with his mouth wide open.

"It's a side effect, it is," Owen motioned with his right hand. "It can't be real; Dr. Mason said there'd be side effects!"

"Dr. Mason says a lot of things," Frank snapped at him. "He's quite good at it; too, I'll give him that."

Owen blinked before sheepishly asking, "W-what do you mean he's good at it?"

"Takes lots of practice, he's had time to practice, and worth every shilling," Frank answered intentionally vaguely, sending chills down Owen's spine.

Owen blinked repeatedly, trying to wake himself up or come out of this hallucination, but nothing worked. If these were the side effects Dr. Mason mentioned, then Owen worried what other side effects there were that he hadn't stumbled upon yet.

"It's just a side effect," Owen attempted to calm himself. "It's not real, this is not real!"

"Oh, Owen, how utterly naïve are you, really?" Frank sighed as Owen looked down at the turtle. Owen slowly blinked before shaking his head. Frank only said in response, "It's never just one thing."

"Why, why me, what did I do to deserve this?" Owen bemoaned as he raised his arms in frustration. While Owen held his head down in anguish, Frank chuckled at this before he said, "I told you before, there's a silver lining in this."

Owen, angry, scoffed and stomped away from the turtle with his arms raised. "You keep saying that, "there's a silver lining in this", and I'm bloody confused as to what the hell that means!" Owen shouted at Frank in frustration. Frank didn't react to the outburst, he remained calm, and responded with, "All good things come when we wait, Owen, you should know better, you'll get your answer when the time is right."

The turtle's responses only made Owen even more frustrated and confused, for a hallucination it seemed vividly real, and it only frightened him further.

"I've gone completely mad, I finally have," Owen wept as he shuffled back to his bed and plopped down with his head hung low. "I've gone mad, oh god, help me!"

"Stop it, you're embarrassing yourself," Frank hissed at him. "All this self-pitying shite of yours, "oh woe is me, oh woe is me", what a sad poor excuse you are, and the fact you're letting someone else do your dirty work, how low can you go!"

Owen flinched at this and a sudden spurt of anger drove him to shout, "At least I'm not a talking turtle and what the hell gives you the right to judge me, no one's after you!"

"At least _I'm_ not dwelling in sorrow instead of doing something about it instead of waiting around like a chump!" The turtle shouted back.

Owen jumped up from his bed and stomped as he approached the turtle again. "What do you expect me to do, I have no footage, no evidence, and no one believes me. You expect me to do something when there's no chance in hell of that happening. Do you think this is any easier on me than it is you?" He snarled at the turtle.

Frank became strangely happy and responded with, "See…! You _aren't_ the useless git I half-expected you to be, you're finally getting it now!"

Owen begun to blink repeatedly and his mind swirled into a mess of dissolute. He felt his legs become weak and attempted to rush back to his bed before they collapsed under his own weight. Barely reaching the bed, Owen looked a round the room as it spun. Breaking out in sweat, Owen felt his skin crawl, and the loss of muscle movement prevented him from reaching for his phone on his nightstand.

His eyes moved around the room against his will, the only thing Owen could see partial bits of his room and a shadow standing at the foot of his bed. Owen didn't know whether it was real or not, but it looked strikingly similar to one of the strange men from the music video. Owen was even able to see the strange man's face. It was pale white with some few distinct features; Owen was unable to see properly.

Unable to move, Owen attempted to call out for help, but nothing came out of his mouth. Like that, his vision blurred until it darkened, and he slept soundly on his bed.


	11. The Porcelain Fears

Owen slowly opened his eyes and blinked his mind foggy and his muscles sore. Slowly, his hazel eyes moved around the room, light from the torch outside coming from the covered window indicated that it was night, still, and stopped at Frank sitting comfortably in his spot. Owen stared at the turtle for minutes, waiting for it to say something, it never did and he pushed himself off his bed. His legs felt like Jell-O sitting in the freezer for far too long, stiff but just enough for him to wobble around his room.

Owen rubbed his eyes and winced in pain, as he found touching even the corner of his eyelid painful, shuffling toward the mirror he kept on the wall he found his milky sclera reddened with veins popping in and around his eyes. Remembering eye drops in the medicine cabinet, Owen hobbled out of his bedroom and into the bathroom. Turning on the light caused slight pain and tears poured from his eyes in response; Owen turned off the light and held a damp rag up to his eyes. Carefully searching his medicine cabinet, Owen felt each item with his fingers until he came across the eye drops.

Pulling the rag away from his eyes, Owen dropped the allocated amount of the eye drops in each of his eyes. His eyes involuntary blinked rapidly, attempting to avoid the eye drops, but failed when the solution touched the pupils. Closing his eyes and moving his eyes around, Owen felt more tears pooling under his eyelids. Holding the damp rag under his eyes, Owen hobbled back to his bedroom and sat down on his bed. He attempted using his mobile to check the time, but couldn't turn on the screen without the sharp pain from the light, and only estimated instead. He'd been out cold for no less than an hour or two, at least three for good measure, and remembered something in that thought. Sherlock, what did he find if he found anything, and was his efforts worth the trouble or in vain?

Knock…

Knock…

Knock…

Rapid knocking coming from the main room, urgent it sounded. Owen pushed himself off the couch again and hobbled out of his bedroom toward the front door. He stopped when he heard an indistinct sound, sirens, outside his window. Attempting to peak through the eyehole, Owen only saw a blurry figure rapidly knocking on the door, blue in some areas, wild blackish brown at the top. He heard shouting, "Owen, open the door, open the door!"

Owen did so and found Sherlock standing there, clearly out of breath, and the look on his face was something Owen never seen before in Sherlock. Owen slowly blinked, fresh tears pooling in the tear ducts, as he managed to ask Sherlock, "Mr. Holmes, what happened?"

Sherlock grabbed him by the arm as he took deep breaths. Every time he exhaled he spoke slowly and his voice shaky. "Shelia… Shelia… she… she… she's dead!" He coughed as Owen's jaw dropped in response.

Shelia was dead, how did this happen?

Owen shook his head in denial. "Sheila can't be dead," he argued with Sherlock, but Sherlock pulled on his arm.

Hobbling down the stairs, Sherlock pulled Owen toward Sheila's door. The door wide open, flashes of light coming from the inside, and yellow tape all over the doorframe. Sherlock pulled him toward the doorframe and stopped him, allowing him to peak into her flat, the smell of putrid flesh and blood wafted from the inside.

Owen lowered the rag from his eye and peered into Sheila's flat, crowded with police. The old rose wallpaper, stained from mildew and cigarette smoke, coated in specs of brownish dots. The old CRT TV Sheila kept turned off, coated in more brownish splotches, the remains of the crushed remote scattered on the scuffled pine floors, and as Owen's hazel eyes moved around the room he stopped when he saw Sheila's chair. Little yellow tags surrounded the floral patterned plush chair Sheila always sat in, but that wasn't the only thing Owen saw. Brown splotches surrounded the chair, some bigger than others, and then Owen's eyes moved up to the chair itself. Soaked in deep burgundy, from the headrest down to the cushion, the armrests looked mangled, long gashes where the hands would rest, and the frills toward the bottom had thick droplets of burgundy stuck to them. Underneath the frills, pools of burgundy rested neatly, glimmering the in the dim light and the horrible metallic smell wafted through the entire room.

Owen simply stood there, his skin paling and blood rushing to his feet as his hazel eyes rested on the chair. It was hard for his mind to take in the scene and he didn't want to believe it, himself. Sheila was dead, there was no mistaking it, she died and Owen never knew.

His voice wavered as he managed to croak, "W-what happened, what the hell happened, what the _hell_ happened?"

Sherlock released his arm finally, before he said to him, "I was patrolling the flat, when I was going past her window, at first I didn't see anything. I couldn't have, there was no light, nothing, the TV wasn't even on! So, I pulled the window up and stuck my head in, that's when I saw… her."

Owen listened to Sherlock; he'd been patrolling as promised and came across a grisly sight. The pit in his stomach grew drastically in size as he shook his head in disbelief. He then remembered how Sheila acted, his skin paled further, and he looked at Sherlock worryingly. "Oh my god, Mr. Holmes," Owen whispered as fresh tears poured onto the damp rag. "I brought her into this, I killed her. I _fucking_ killed her!"

Sherlock held up his hands and attempted to comfort Owen in his own way, "You didn't know. How could you, you had no way of knowing what was going on and you didn't have evidence. It's not your fault, Mr. van Burton; you had no part in this."

Owen snapped at him, "The hell it is, it's because of me she's dead. I brought this on her, she may have been a cranky old crow but she didn't deserve this. If I didn't push her, if I didn't call on you, if I didn't do anything she would've been alive!"

"You don't know that, for all you know, she could've died regardless if you called on me or not. Even then, if you didn't call on me, you could've been dead, too," Sherlock reminded him.

Owen turned away from the doorway and stood at the side with the rag covering his entire eyes. Fresh tears freely poured from his eyes before absorbed by the rag as Owen felt his heart beat rapidly, the feeling of pure dread settled in his gut, and he exhaled sharply.

Owen flipped the rag around and pressed it again his eyes, mixed tears absorbed into it as he felt his teeth chatter against his lips. "Why didn't they kill me, I was asleep, they had me dead to rights. Why did they only kill Sheila?" Owen stuttered as he felt Sherlock's hand on his shoulder as Sherlock led him away from the door. Walking up the stairs toward his flat, Owen walked through the doorway as Sherlock held the door for him. Hobbling inside, Owen turned around as Sherlock closed the door behind him.

"Why didn't they kill me, Mr. Holmes?" Owen repeated his previous question. "What goddamn reason do they have to keep me alive?"

"I don't know, Mr. van Burton, I promise you with my life I will find out whom did this and bring them to justice. I assure you the LPD will search every nook and cranny for evidence and suspects, John, and I will sort through them, you have my word. For now, you must remain calm and clean up. Detective Inspector Lestrade will arrive shortly to take your statement and then you will have to vacate the premises," Sherlock informed Owen as he hobbled around his flat. Owen rubbed his eyes with the rag before sniffling; he slowly nodded after Sherlock told him that the detective inspector would arrive shortly. Shuffling toward the bathroom, Owen struggled to get into his shower, before taking a quick shower. It felt like he spent an eternity in the shower, the hot water hitting against his eyes washed away the caked tears and provided some relief and Owen tried everything in his power to understand everything happening.

Sheila knew who were breaking into his flat, she was afraid to tell him because they threatened her. If she told him, they would kill her, but when this happened, Owen didn't know what happened. Sheila never let up, never gave any hint or any thought, and she kept Owen away as much as possible. She should've still been alive, why did they kill her then?

Either she proved to be more difficult to deal with and they killed her or something happened, a wrench in the plan, and they had to kill her. What the answer was, Owen couldn't begin to think of ways to find it.

Sherlock mentioned the detective inspector and Owen felt knots in his stomach form like snakes balling up. He had to give a statement, tell the detective inspector what little he knew. He couldn't even begin to explain how he heard screaming a dream or even to prove it was real. He wasn't even sure what Sherlock even told, at all, to the detective inspector.

Assuming he wasn't arrested for rousing the detective inspector's suspicion and making himself looking worse off than he already was, Owen had another problem on top of everything else. He had to leave his flat for the remainder of the investigation. Given the situation, he wasn't going to be able to grab everything he needed, including his PC.

Running a hand through his soaked hair, Owen shuddered as a cold spell wafted over him. He rubbed his arms and slowly blinked, the cold spell brief yet unkindly, the feeling of dread still lurked in his mind. "God, why can't this end, why won't it end?" Owen mourned as he shook his head, the beads of water splattered onto the tiled walls and shower curtain.

Stepping out of the shower, Owen threw on deodorant and greased his hair before throwing on spare clothes he kept in the bathroom. He stared into the bathroom mirror, his eyes not as puffy as they were when he woke up. Walking out of the bathroom, Sherlock waited for him. He asked Sherlock, "What's going to happen, now?"

Sherlock held his arms behind him as he replied with, "Due in part of your proximity, Detective Inspector Lestrade will regard you as a suspect, for now, I will speak with him on the matter and assure him you are not, but a victim, too. You will also only have a little time to grab what you need before the police escort you out of the building. As for when you will be able to return to your flat, I cannot say."

Owen sucked air through his teeth as he thought about John's offer. Given the circumstances, Owen feared going to John's home would incite more deaths, but he had nowhere else to go outside John's offer. "Dr. Watson offered me a place in his home, but, I don't want to go to it if this is what happens. I will not allow any more blood on my hands, Mr. Holmes. I… I don't know where I'll go from here, but, goddamn it, I'm not gonna let anymore people get hurt because of me," Owen's voice wavered.

Sherlock slowly nodded and responded with, "I understand, Mr. van Burton, but as you say your options are limited."

Owen ran a hand through his damp hair and exhaled sharply. His mind swirled with ideas and possible outcomes, none of which went anywhere he hoped. He finally asked Sherlock, "What am I going to do, Mr. Holmes?"

"The only possible solution I know of is for you to stay in a hotel, not a small one but not a big one either, preferably a chain. Obviously, you cannot tell anyone where you're going, where you're staying, and even then this is a temporary solution," Sherlock informed Owen of his deduction and Owen held his head low.

"Suppose I leave the city, won't that help?" Owen suggested. There were plenty of places for him to run and hide in, cheaper too, granted he'd have to figure out a way to lug his necessitates with him without rousing anyone. "Go to Cheshire, Cambridge, hell, I'll go to bloody Wales if it's what it takes!"

Sherlock shook his head disapprovingly. Owen tilted his head in confusion at Sherlock's response. Generally, leaving the city would be a good idea. The fact no one would have to know where he went or where he gone, he'd disappear into the night and no one would find him. Allowing ample time for Sherlock and John to build up his case until the time comes and the ordeal ends, at least that's what Owen hoped. Sherlock disapproving this idea bothered him.

"Mr. Holmes, why would leaving the city be a bad idea, it's a great idea. I don't know any cheap chain hotels in London, Mr. Holmes, at least anything with what you have in mind, but I'm sure as hell know hotels are cheaper outside the city," Owen dejectedly said as he paced around his flat.

Sherlock explained his reasoning while watching Owen pace around his flat. "If you leave the city, they'll just follow you, do you think by leaving would stop them from coming for you elsewhere. If you leave, I can't offer protection. I may be the "Great Detective" but even I can't extend my hands everywhere. My resources are as limited as anyone else, believe it or not, and I cannot afford anything happening to you outside my protection," Sherlock summed for Owen as Owen walked toward his PC.

Owen stopped and listened to Sherlock. It pained him to say, but Sherlock was right, despite Owen's ideas they'd just keep coming. No matter where he went, no matter where he hid, they'd find him, and like Sherlock said, he'd be unable to get help from him if he ran. He had to remain in London and the only thing he can do was pray. "There's no shame in hiding, Mr. Holmes," Owen felt a lump in his throat build as he spoke. "Why can't I hide?"

Sherlock gave a comforting smile before saying, "Unfortunately, even hiding doesn't get you anywhere. Even if you're successful in changing your name and identity, everything, does it mean it truly ends?"

Sherlock got him there. Hiding, while having its uses, won't help him. Hiding is only a temporary solution and that only time would tell when that solution fails. By then, Owen either ran off into the night or dragged into it by the unseen men. "What would you do in my situation, Mr. Holmes?" Owen asked him.

Sherlock crossed his arms and thought about Owen's question. He spent many years traversing the world, by himself or with his assistant John. All the enemies he made, all the companions he met, and everything that happened. Those who died, those imprisoned, those who suffered permanent damage to either body or mind, and those who simply disappeared from his life, all these facts Sherlock mulled over. He weighed the good and the bad, reminding him of Owen's limitations compared to him. Owen certainly never fired a gun and certainly doesn't have any means to get out of trouble if he was in one. He didn't have anyone to turn to that had power to intervene, unlike Sherlock who had Mycroft.

"I would stay and fight, Mr. van Burton," Sherlock finally gave his answer as Owen stared at him. "If I die than so be it, but I won't let them bully me around, use my fears against me."

He talked brave for a man who been shot at several times, poisoned, nearly strangled, hung, and everything else in a handbook on how to murder someone. The fact that he said this gave some encouragement for Owen; it didn't make him any braver than Sherlock.

"But, Mr. Holmes," Owen sheepishly begun. "I'm not as brave as you. Hell, I don't even know how to fight."

"That I cannot teach you, that you will have to learn on your own," Sherlock gave his sage advice and Owen only began understanding it.

They heard knocking on the door and Sherlock went and opened it. Standing there was a man, he didn't dress like the other policemen, and Sherlock seemed dismal of him. "Lestrade's waiting for you, Sherlock," he said. Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Yes, thank you, Anderson, I could've told you that. Come along, Mr. van Burton, we have much to do."

"Yes, right," Owen gulped as he followed Sherlock out of his flat, passing Anderson who silently thumbed his nose at Sherlock.

Owen felt his ribcage rattle as his heart beat violently in his chest. He may have talked to the police before, but never the detective inspector himself. He chewed on the bottom of his lip as he followed Sherlock down the stairs and toward Sheila's flat. Standing at the doorway, a rather average height man with his graying black hair gleaming from the grease in the dim light, he turned his head when he saw Sherlock coming down the hallway and turned to face him.

"You better have a damn good explanation for this, Sherlock," he stared at Sherlock. "You discovering the body and no one heard anything?"

"Detective Inspector, I cannot provide you all the answers yet, but Mr. van Burton can provide some of the answers you need," Sherlock stepped to the side and allowed Owen a full view of Lestrade.  
Lestrade stared at Owen and Owen stared back. Lestrade began with, "Well, Mr. van Burton, I am Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, I will be taking your statement. Sherlock filled me on somethings, but I'll like you to answer things that I'm not quite sure about, if that's alright with you."

Owen slowly nodded as he replied with, "Of course, Detective Inspector, anything, anything to help."

Lestrade nodded as he grabbed a small notepad from his inner pocket and his pen from another. With pen to paper, Lestrade started with, "Where were you at the time of the murder?"

Owen felt his heart strangling itself. He chewed on the bottom of his lip as he answered, "Home, in my flat. I was asleep."

"Can anyone vouch for you, Mr. van Burton?" Lestrade continued as he wrote Owen's answers.

Owen frowned as he shook his head. "No, Detective Inspector, I live alone… I don't have anyone to vouch for me," he watched Lestrade write the response.

"Did Mrs. Ferguson have any enemies?" Lestrade inquired. Owen corrected him with, "It's actually Ms. Forrester, and her husband died twenty-years ago."

Lestrade changed something on his notepad and coughed, indicating he wanted Owen to answer his original question.

Owen cleared his throat as he answered, "No, no, Sheila didn't have any enemies, none that come to mind."

Lestrade nodded before writing it down. He glanced up at Owen, "Do you know if she has any family, we can't seem to find anything."

Sheila never really talked about her family, except for maybe when she was drunk coming back from the pub, but other than that she was quiet. What she mentioned was that she had a son and something happened to him and she still felt agony from his death. "She somewhat mentioned a son, but, I don't think you'll get anything from that. I think he died, I don't know how, but outside that and her husband, I don't know anyone from her family," Owen scratched the back of his head.

Lestrade jotted it all down and then asked, "Did she receive any visitors, anyone particular, perhaps?"

"She never liked company, the only time she ever had company was when a repairman came to fix some plumbing issues. That was four years ago, so, I doubt that's relevant," Owen shrugged his shoulders. He didn't keep track of Sheila's guests if she had any. Lestrade nodded and made note of it, he then inquired about friends. "Did Sheila have any friends?" he pointed his pencil at Owen.

Sheila had few friends, women of similar age as her, they often went out and ate, discussing god knows what and cutting coupons. Often, they go out to pubs and come back completely smashed. "Well, she has some friends; I don't know them very well, though. We never really talked, they were usually drunk when they come in from their pub crawls," Owen mentioned as his hazel eyes stared behind Lestrade and into the flat. So much blood on the walls, floor, and chair, it made Owen sick in his stomach just looking at the sight. What man had such brevity he do such deed to an elderly woman, even if Sheila was a spitfire she couldn't fight against whoever killed her…

"Mr. van Burton," Lestrade snapped him back to reality. "Did _you_ have any problems with Ms. Forrester?"

Owen felt that sickening feeling bubbled. He shifted in his spot as he shook his head. Sure, he had problems with Sheila, but nothing that would make him kill her. "I mean, who doesn't have problems with their landlord, Detective Inspector, we have our disagreements here and there, but, no, she usually leaves me alone unless she needs something and only comes to me for the rent. Otherwise, she watches her soaps and doesn't want me bothering her," Owen earnestly said, but saw a look of doubt in Lestrade's eyes. He flinched a little and when Lestrade finished writing, he looked at him, twice.

"I'm told you haven't paid your rent for six months; care to explain, Mr. van Burton?" Lestrade eyed Owen sharply. Owen shirked in his spot and his hazel eyes jumped to where Sherlock would've been standing, but he was gone.

Owen sucked air through his teeth as he stared at Lestrade. He struggled to get a sentence together but managed. "Um, she gave me six months, f-free, but um, I can explain," he stuttered. Owen watched Lestrade look up and down with his eyes and frowned, he flipped to another page and began writing.

"Well, that's very generous, Mr. van Burton, strange she'd give you six months free," Lestrade's words were latten with distrust and doubt, so much that Owen felt beads of sweat form on the back of his neck. "Why'd she give that?"

Sherlock reappeared, having gone outside the building, and said to Lestrade while walking toward them. "Detective Inspector, tell your men to expand the search radius by six meters."

Lestrade took eyes off Owen and laid them on Sherlock. Confused, Lestrade asked him, "What now, Sherlock?"

Sherlock pointed at Lestrade's trouser pocket. Lestrade rolled his eyes and stuck his pen in between his teeth before digging around his pocket for his mobile. Pulling it out, with one hand, Lestrade unlocked it, went to his messages, and tilted his head. "My god," Lestrade said in a stilted voice with the pen moving slightly, visibly turning pale. He nodded, stuck his mobile back into his pocket before taking his pen out of his mouth, and shouted up the stairs, telling Anderson to come down from the second floor. Anderson hobbled down the stairs and Lestrade told him to take some of the police and go search further from what they already searched.

Anderson nodded and left the building, Lestrade turned his attention to Owen. "Mr. van Burton, tell me, do you by chance have any thought as to who killed Sheila?" he asked, his words further latent with doubt. Owen flinched again before stuttering, "I don't know, Detective Inspector, sir."

"Strange, you didn't hear anything, see anything, and looks like you haven't smelled anything either," Lestrade stuck his notepad and pen back into their respected pockets.

Owen blinked, confused, did he say… smell?

"Pardon…?" Owen blinked.

Lestrade's eyes pierced Owen's and when Owen heard it, he felt his chest becoming tight.

"Where were you two nights ago, Mr. Van Burton?" Lestrade asked his final set of questions.

"Home," Owen responded, in the corner of his eye, Sherlock silently watched.

Lestrade nodded, "Means no alibi, nothing that establishes you there."

"What are you talking about?" Owen crossed his arms.

Lestrade continued to eye him. "Did you happen to see her at least two-three days ago?" he strangely asked. Owen remembered trying to talk to her but she didn't come to the door, she just yelled at him. He shook his head, "I remember trying to talk to her, why?"

Lestrade chewed at his bottom lip as he nodded, walking toward Owen. He stopped when he was in front of him. "Did she ever come out of her flat, maybe open the door?" he eyed Owen accusingly. Owen shook his head again. "No, she just yelled at me, what's this about?" he tried to ask, but Lestrade refused to answer.

"But, you say she yelled at _you_ , correct?" Lestrade ignored his question and instead asked, "What did she say to you, exactly?"

Owen prayed for Sherlock to intervene, but he didn't, he kept standing there and allowed this to continue. Owen couldn't outright ask Sherlock, it was between him and Lestrade. Lestrade wouldn't allow it, Owen could tell. "She just said to stop bothering her, she's watching her soap operas, sir," Owen honestly responded, but Lestrade shook his head in disagreement.

"Mr. van Burton, dead people don't talk," Lestrade pointed out. Owen stared at him, trying to figure out what he had just said to him. "What do you mean, by that, Detective Inspector?" Owen eyed him.

"Ms. Forrester has been dead for two days, Mr. van Burton," Lestrade finally said.

Owen shook his head as he tried suggesting that Lestrade got it wrong, "S-she couldn't be dead for two days, she was alive when I talked to her!"

"The ME confirmed she died sometime in the early morning," Lestrade nodded.

Owen couldn't control what happened next. He felt his legs turned to noodles and his stomach thrashing around in his body. Sherlock tried to help, but Owen felt natural instinct took hold and he hobbled out of the building, took a turn toward an empty area near the stair, and held his legs as he vomited.


	12. Fleeing into the Porcelain Night

Owen felt his stomach lurch as he held his hands on his knees, heaving. The sound of his heart beating rapidly in his chest the only thing he heard as he stood there with vomit dripping from his mouth. Starring down at his own vomit, Owen blinked; he heard her die and didn't do anything about it. That dream he had, it was no dream, it actually happened.

"You couldn't move," an abrupt voice seemingly answered a question Owen never got to ask himself. "You were under its effects for quite a while."

Owen turned his head slightly, believing it was Sherlock, and found he wasn't there. No one stood there; it was just Owen and a pool of his vomit. He glanced around the area, believing there was someone there, he just didn't see them, but once more there was no one there. It was just him.

Coughing, Owen wiped away the vomit that pooled under his bottom lip with his forearm. Confused, Owen blinked and righted himself, leaning against the building with his shoulder.

He prayed that he would wake up, that it was a bad dream. Sheila would shout at his door and he would wake up, she'd be standing there demanding rent or his help. He pinched himself hard, hoping to wake up, but he never woke up, he wasn't asleep. Frowning, Owen closed his eyes briefly and shook his head. He blamed himself for Sheila's death. It was his curiosity that got her killed. Sherlock might've been right, it wasn't his fault, but he felt like it was.

It dwelled on his mind, lingering in the corners, something else that bothered him terribly. The Detective Inspector said Sheila died two nights ago—when he was having that awful "dream"—but when he got up the following morning and checked on her she yelled at him. How could've she yelled at him if she were dead, was he so used to her constant shouting that it'd become second nature for him to assume her responses even when she didn't even say anything?

Owen tried rewinding the events, he was doing tax forms and the like, and he'd just started relaxing after having spent most of the day chasing shadows with Sherlock and John. He fell asleep and that's when he couldn't move outside his eyes, though, and the appearance of the three shadows. Two went on opposite sides while the other was behind him holding Frank. One shadow lifted his fingers and done something to his pinkie finger while the other stuck something in his vein.

Amidst this, Owen started hearing the faint pleas and wails of Sheila. Soon after, the three shadows disappeared out of his flat, and that was when Owen woke up.

He checked his pinkie and his forearm, found nothing on them, not even a scratch. He checked Frank, but, Frank was okay, cranky. Then, after getting ready to go with Sherlock and John to the Red Star, Owen went downstairs and checked on Sheila. Sheila only yelled at him.

It made no sense. None of this did.

His mind silenced when Sherlock appeared at the top of the stairs with a concerned looked on his face. "Mr. van Burton, are you alright?" Sherlock asked him. Owen held a hand over his mouth as he tried to respond to Sherlock without embarrassing himself. "I-I'm fine, but, Mr. Holmes, something's wrong!" he mustered as Sherlock stepped down the stair. "Sheila spoke to me just before I left to come with you to the Red Star. I swear."

Sherlock stepped toward him with a befuddled look in his eyes. He dug around his dark navy coat pockets and brought out neatly folded tissues and handed them to Owen. Owen thanked him and used one to wipe his face. As he did this, Sherlock replied with, "She died around 3 AM, Mr. van Burton. She couldn't've talked to you."

Owen coughed as he held the tissue up to his mouth. He shook his head, the tissue waving in the breeze. He struggled to say to Sherlock, "But if that wasn't her that I was talking to, who was it?"

Sherlock pondered this and Owen could tell by the look in his piercing light blue eyes he had some idea as to who Owen spoke with, but rather share with him, he only said to Owen. "I don't know, come on, I'll take you up to your flat, you better get cleaned up before you leave," Sherlock gently grabbed Owen's arm and pulled him toward the stairs. Owen dejectedly asked, "What about the Detective Inspector, doesn't he consider me a suspect?"

"I have spoken with him, Mr. van Burton, and he is aware of the situation," Sherlock only said as he pulled Owen back into the building and up the stairs. Lestrade wasn't standing at the doorway of Sheila's anymore; he was inside talking with the other detectives. Owen didn't know what they were talking about, but they seemed mortified, about what he didn't know. He barely heard anything when Sherlock helped him up the stairs and toward his flat.

Sherlock opened the door for him and Owen hobbled inside, his mind foggy and in disarray. He shuffled toward the bathroom and spent time wiping away the dried on vomit and sweat, washing out his mouth with warm water, and stared into the mirror. His eyes weren't puffy from the side effects of his medications anymore; they were puffy from the tears he shed. It took Owen no more than half an hour to collect himself before he calmly walked out of the bathroom.

Sherlock waited for him in the living room and there he said to Owen, "You have only two hours to grab what you need. Unfortunately, while I am aware of your job, you're not able to bring your PC with you. In fact, I believe it's better for you to leave it here in your flat. Call it a hunch, but, trust that no one will touch it."

Owen looked at his PC, his Lady Macbeth, the idea of leaving it behind while he hid in a hotel seemed cruel. Leaving all his private information and programs, the fear of losing it all dwelled on his very mind. He needed his PC for his work and while he could file for compensation, as Sherlock mentioned, it was only temporary, and this case wasn't ending any quicker.

"Mr. Holmes, even if I do get compensation for lost wages, it doesn't mean I'll have enough to keep me afloat. What if the case drags on as it is currently, they won't stay kindly for long, it's something to worry about," Owen interjected as Sherlock picked up one of Owen's books from the pile. Thumbing through a book on how to build computers, Sherlock said to Owen, "Rest assure, it will not drag on more than it has to. Worry nothing else, it will be fine. Now, grab what you desire and a policeman will take you to the hotel."

Owen hung his head low as he disappeared into his bedroom and pulled out a large bag he used for laundry from under his bed. He went through his drawers pulling out clothes and threw them into the opened large back. Lazy shirts, loose bed shorts, and pants, and anything else gone into the bag until Owen went over to it and readjusted the clothes to fit the bag. He stuck his mobile in his pocket and shoved the charger in the side pocket of the bag.

As he pushed down on the growing pile, he stopped when he remembered Frank. Glancing over, Frank was still there, silently watching him, and Owen blinked. Stopping, Owen walked over to Frank and looked down at the turtle. He half-expected the turtle to talk again, but it never did. Shaking his head, Owen gently grabbed the turtle and carried to the back and rested it on top of his shirts. Frank's beady black eyes gleamed in the dim light. "Sorry, I can't carry you," Owen muttered as he zipped the bag halfway before carrying it out of his room and into the bathroom and grabbed everything he needed from there, including his toothbrush and paste.

Shoving everything into the bag, Owen zipped it fully, and walked with it out into the main room where Sherlock waited.

"I'm ready, Mr. Holmes," Owen said to him. Sherlock nodded and clasped his hands together. He said to Owen, "I promise this will end soon, Mr. van Burton. And be sure that I will be at a hair's inch if you need me. All you need to do is text me."

That was comforting to Owen. He nodded at this and responded with, "What are you gonna do now, Mr. Holmes?"

"You needn't ask, you're already on edge, I rather not frighten you more," Sherlock dodged his question. Then, Owen remembered.

"Mr. Holmes, I need to know something," Owen started as Sherlock unclasped his hands and held them behind his back. He nods at Owen and responds with, "Of course, what it is?"

"How… how did… how did she die?" Owen blurted his question. In his mind, he didn't recall any gunshots ringing out lest they used silencers, and he wanted to know if it were truly possible for him to been oblivious to Sheila dying.

Sherlock's expression changed and he became concerned. "Mr. van Burton, I rather not frighten you," he objected to Owen's question, but Owen refused to relent. He shook his head and gestured with his free hand, "Please, I need to know if I heard something else."

Owen watched Sherlock become increasingly uncomfortable, odd considering how usually straightforward he normally was. Sherlock frowned at his inquiry and answered with, "Are you positive you want to know, I rather you not think any more about this."

Walking toward him with his bag in hand, Owen said to Sherlock. "I didn't hear anything, Mr. Holmes. I didn't hear a gunshot. What. Did. She. Die. Of?"

Sherlock exhaled and stretched out his arms, when he finished. He finally said to Owen, "I don't expect you to hear anything. They didn't use a gun of any sort. Whoever they were, they should be traceable. Not often I get a case with a rapier."

Owen blinked; he couldn't believe what Sherlock just told him. Sheila died from a rapier that explains why he never heard anything outside Sheila pleading. It was quiet, not a gun, but if it was a rapier, how did the perpetrator carry it around without anyone noticing much less where it was acquired?

"How… How did you know this, Mr. Holmes?" Owen inquired as Sherlock shifted in his spot. Sherlock shrugged as he casually responded, "It's my duty to know all sorts of things."

He turned around and opened the door; Owen hobbled forward and stood close to Sherlock. He asked him, "If they used a rapier, then you can trace it, right?"

Sherlock shook his head as he replied. "I can't promise you on that front, Mr. van Burton. However, this might be a smoking gun. Let me worry about it and I promise you, no one will bother you. If there are any visitors it will be me and John," he walked Owen out of the flat and down the stairs. An officer waited at the bottom and Owen gave a quick look to Sherlock who only watched as the officer walked with Owen out of the building.

The hotel in question, happened to been moderately sized. Four stories with twenty rooms each, room service, premium channels, and a small bar in every room. It took no time for Owen to get his room, it was set up even before he gotten there, and all he had to do was sign under an assumed named and receive his key. 14b, the first floor, not far to get to and fro the entrance and a hair's inch from the reception desk, and Owen rather not opt for the elevator or stairs.

With his bag in hand and the key to his room in the other, Owen approached his door. A swipe of his key and inside the lit room was a plush bed with pillows to match and a thick starchy white comforter that greeted him first. Across from the bed a decent size mounted plasma TV, on the stand below it, a guide of this week's showing, and the remote.

Closing the door behind him, Owen walked over to the bed and sat the bag on it. Unzipping it, he brought out Frank first and rested the turtle on the nightstand, under the lamp. He grabbed his medication and charger and stuck the charger in one of the free slots. Handling his phone, Owen plugged it in the charger and sat it near Frank. Walking over to the stand, Owen grabbed the remote and the guide. He switched the lights from the overhead to the lamp on the nightstand before returning to the bed.

Sitting on the bed with the guide and remote near him, Owen removed his socks and shoes before throwing up his legs on the bed.

He almost sank in the mattress, it was like a cloud, and he barely felt any springs. The pillows felt like air and his head gently sunk and Owen powered on the TV. The volume was low, around ten, and was on the default news channel. Taking a glance at the guide, Owen didn't find anything in particular that caught his eye and instead took to channel surfing instead.

Bored, he flipped between the sports and the movies, found nothing he liked, and stopped at the music channel. A music video countdown show played, the hosts counting down to the best music video for that particular episode. Owen checked the info and found the episode was called "Beasts, Madmen, and Mad Libs" and it had an array of different artists, some not mentioned into the info.

Shrugging, Owen sat the remote on the nightstand and settled in his spot; briefly the show did a recap of the previous music videos before playing the number one music video for that episode.

Twangy music begins to play as the big '1' faded into the music video. On an empty road, a man in a blue long coat walked along it, and observing him from afar another man wearing a suit, whose chocolate eyes sparkled in the torchlight. Lying on his back, he sat upon the cobbled stone wall, the man, revealed to be none other than Leon McDowell. In the distance the wolves howled just before Leon said, "Who's that walking down Main Street?"

His chocolate eyes followed the man before his eyes widened and sparkled with interest. "Why, it's the big blue detective!"

Leon jumped off the wall and began to follow the detective, singing "Main Street Maladies".

Walking alongside the detective who seemed bemused at the sight of Leon as Leon tried to strike up a conversation with him. Leon smiled as he sung, "Hey-a there, Mr. Detective. You sure are looking blue. You're everything a big bad man can want."

The detective stared at him, as if he were crazy, before trying to walk away from Leon. Leon didn't take this well as he grabbed the detective and hissed, "Listen to me!"

He pointed in the distance. "Mr. Detective, I don't think you should go walking into the unknown alone."

In the distance, the wolves howled again. The detective seemed undeterred and started to walk again, so Leon tried to butter him up with compliments while trying to plead his case as they walked down Main Street. Leon points at the detective's eyes, "What big blue eyes you have the kind that drive women mad. So, just to see you don't get chased, I think I ought to walk you home."

The detective shook his head at this and Leon shrugged his shoulder before singing, "What pale skin you have, it shoulda look somewhat tan. You look somewhat mad. So, until you reach home I think you ought to walk with me."

Leon flashed a smile at the detective but the detective looked bemused at the sight, so Leon puffs up and runs in place with two fingers under his suits lapel showing them to the detective. "I'm gonna keep my cheap suit on, just so we're on the same page and can get along!" Leon sung.

Leon stopped running in place and wrapped his arms around the detective. He sung to the detective, "Mr. Detective, I'd like to hold you captive, if I could. But you might think I'm crazy, really, I'm just lazy!"

In the distance the wolves howled once more, this time closer.

Leon released the detective and the detective stormed away from Leon, attempting to get away from him. The detective tried desperately to run down Main Street, but Leon always managed to catch up to him and at a corner, Leon was on his knees pleading with the detective. Pointing at his heart, Leon sung, "What big heart I have, not a bad bone to hate you at all. Mr. Detective, even bad man like me loves madmen."

When the detective wouldn't relent, Leon scowled as he tried to puff up his chest and point at the detective. Leon argued, "I'll try to keep your life on the line with sharp knives. Walk close by my side and then, you'll see the guillotine just before you get home!"

The detective took off running again and continued to run until he wound up at four-way. When Leon reappeared he scowled at him and Leon smiled warmly. He held out his arms as he spun around the detective, singing. "Mr. Detective, you sure are looking mad. You're everything that a bad man could want!"

The wolves were closer as they howled one final time.

The detective, having had enough, ran down one of the lanes. Leon chasing after him with his arms outreached, bobbing his head left and right. "I mean mad!" Leon cackled as he chased the detective. As he disappeared in the distance, the song ended. "I mean mad!"

Owen, entertained, turned to Frank who was watching the music video with him. Frank didn't talk; Owen didn't feel like doing Frank's voice, and with everything that happened tonight he rather not. He only wanted to relax and think quietly to himself.

Someone killed Sheila with a rapier that alone sent shivers down his spine. He didn't want to think about the reasons why anyone would want to use a rapier or even where they gotten it. How they managed to get into Sheila's flat without anyone noticing was another thing he questioned. Sheila never leaves her doors unlocked, not even a minute, and that goes double for windows. If anyone brute forced their way in, someone else would've heard it and intervened.

Owen pondered a great deal before he remembered his pills. He pushed himself up and was about to retrieve them before he remembered the horrific nightmare he had just before he woke up to this. "Missing one dose isn't going to hurt, is it?" he questioned as he settled back on his bed and closed his eyes.


	13. The Breakfast Bunch

Since the day it all started, Owen never had a good night's rest. Not even a chance to fully relax without the aching fear resting in his tired mind, whispering to him all through the day, reminding him of what's out there waiting for him to make a mistake and snap him up like a hawk. All that happened, Owen was lucky enough to fall asleep on his own, it surprised him that he was able to. He thought he wouldn't, with what happened to poor Sheila on his mind, but he did, somehow.

Owen softly snored, tucked under the comforter, while Frank watched over him. It crawled around in his mind about what Sherlock said. A rapier, what madman would use such a thing, especially on someone like Sheila?

Using a gun would've roused suspicion, no doubt. Though, using a sword seemed cumbersome and roused even more suspicion. How would anyone carry a rapier with them without someone noticing, a small handgun could've easily been hidden under a coat. Sherlock seemed adamant about locating the weapon, not that Owen blamed him. Handguns, being illegal for civilian use, would've been far easier to track. Swords, there were decorative and recreational ones; they don't have serial numbers etched in the blades. If the perpetrator didn't get the rapier in London, likely, he gotten it online, or somewhere else, and how he carried it around without anyone noticing, perhaps, a trench coat. Then again, someone skulking around in a trench coat would've incited suspicion, too.

In the quiet room, with the television still on, Owen swore he heard someone, right beside him. "It is not a farce, it is a well-crafted weapon!" he heard. His eyes fluttered open and his eyes soared as they scanned the room from top to bottom. The voice was very close and Owen heard it perfectly. His eyes stopped when they rested on Frank. Owen turned his head over to face the turtle and he said, "Frank, was that you?"

The turtle didn't say anything. Owen tried touching the turtle, seeing if that would agitate it, but the turtle never said anything. Owen felt a lump in his stomach; no normal person heard disembodied voices. It frightened the meek man; thoughts swirled around in his mind. "Am… am… am I crazy?" Owen wondered to himself as he lay in bed. While Owen attempted to calm himself, he began to notice an odd smell. At first he wrote it off as something from the hotel room, but it was strong, and peculiar. It smelt… earthy… but it didn't smell like anything of nature, but, it smelt odd.

Owen wasn't sure to make of it, but, all that came to mind was it smelt like porcelain, unglazed porcelain. The smell that most artists come to associate when handling art pieces fired in the kiln. It was strong and it seemed to encompass the area opposite of Owen. Owen slowly turned his head toward the other side of the bed, nothing there.

Owen blinked in confusion, but pulled away when he heard knocking at the door. "Coming," Owen muttered as he pushed himself off the bed and waddled toward the door. Peering through the peephole, a familiar face stood there. "Dr. Watson, what time is it?" Owen struggled to say. He heard John's response, "It's nearly eight, um, are you alright. I'd like to talk to you."

Owen nodded and answered, "Of course, Dr. Watson, um, give me a few minutes."

He waddled away from the door and toward the bathroom. He wetted his hands and ran them through his hair, combing it with his fingers, before washing his face. His eyes weren't puffy anymore, he noticed. Once done, he walked out of the bathroom and toward the door of the hotel room.

Opening it up, John stood there with concern in his eyes. Owen frowned and asked him, "What can I do for you, Dr. Watson?"

"I heard what happened and I'm dreadfully sorry. I don't know what went through Sherlock's curly head to tell you all that," John shook his head in disdain as he had heard what Sherlock said to Owen. "But, that's not what I'm here for. I've been looking into the mysterious vehicle and through help, I have found something peculiar."

Owen nodded and offered John inside the hotel room, but he politely refused. Instead, he said, "I've been looking into this for quite a while, I'm rather famished. The hotel offers free breakfast, so, if it's alright with you I'd like to grab something."

That was reasonable and Owen agreed. "Of course, Dr. Watson, hold on, I'll come with. I need something to eat, too."

Owen briefly closed the door and shuffled toward his bag that he had next to the bed and grabbed a spare change of clothes. It took no time to change and grab everything he needed, Owen threw on a gray long T-shirt with short sleeves that clung to parts of his shoulder and some loose fitting jeans. Putting on his shoes, Owen continued to smell the odd porcelain smell. At first he thought it might've been Frank, but upon closer inspection, the glazed turtle had no smell of any kind. Confused, Owen rubbed his hazel eyes and muttered to himself, he must been imaging things, it had to been. Standing up, Owen was about to join John outside but remembered his prescription.

"What if I get another migraine?" Owen muttered to himself. He frowned as he pondered his predicament. He hadn't taken his prescription earlier, but, at the same time, he didn't want to risk another episode like before. "What if I get another one of those… hallucinations?"

Owen concluded if he gotten a rather horrible migraine he'd take the two pills, but, won't take them as prescribed. He knew it wasn't the best idea, but, at this point he had almost no options left to his name. Dr. Mason might be able to help him, but, at the same time, as John said, Owen had to consider everything.

Owen rummaged around in his bag until he fished out the pill bottle and stuck it in one of his deeper pockets, next to his phone and keys.

Walking over to the door, he opened it again and stepped through the threshold. Closing the door behind him, Owen glanced at John who then asked, "How are you holding up, if you don't mind me asking?"

Owen couldn't bother to lie. He shook his head, his black hair barely moved from the water. "I feel like shite. Everything happening feels like I'm trapped in a Christmas special without the snow. I don't even know where to begin from there."

John gave a comforting look while patting his shoulder. "At least you're honest. Less can be said about Sherlock, but that's a story for another time," he mentioned as they began to walk down the hallway toward the communal area.

In the communal area of the hotel, there were two sets of refrigerated cases, one for drinks such as milk and the other for small food items such yogurt or fruit near the wall on the right. By the refrigerated case with the drinks, a neatly lined array of small plastic bowels of store brand cereal. Next to them, cups of spoon, and a stack of napkins.

On a table opposite, three coffee makers, the coffee was whatever the hotel opted for that day and always made black. Creamers, sugars, and everything else were beside the coffee makers.

There were four hotplates, for DIY pancakes, sausages, or eggs, next to the hotplates there were two waffle irons. Near them on a table, an array of different vegetables and fruits, sauces and butters, spices in small packets, and the plates with the utensils next to them. Under a hot lamp, warmed muffins, bagels, and some pre-made toast without butter.

Owen walked with John toward a line of people. Tourists, mostly, some come from America while others come from the surrounding country. Businessmen here and there, but, they barely stayed long; they grabbed the smallest and easiest thing before walking out.

The line thinned moderately and John was able to grab a plate while Owen opted for cereal. He glanced at the cereal and made his choice, while he was supposed to curb his sweet tooth, he needed this. Some sugary cereal with big thick marshmallows, with a cartoony character on front of the plastic, smiling while chasing after the star themed marshmallows and cereal with a spoon, Owen had to grab another of it just because he felt like he could. Grabbing milk from the case, Owen juggled the two cereals and milk while grabbing for napkins and a spoon.

John already grabbed some sausage, fried eggs, toast, and coffee.

The two rejoined and walked toward the sitting area. Enough tables to accommodate the guests, areas for guests to place their used utensils and plates, and there were plenty of rubbish bins neatly placed toward the walls.

Opting to sit near the doors, John and Owen sat down and begun digging into their breakfast. John sliced the sausages in half and layered them on one side of the toast before placing the fried eggs on tops. With his fork he spooned out a cup of gravy over them before placing another piece of toast on top.

Owen pried back the thin plastic sheets of his cereal before pulling off the cap for the milk and pouring it equally into both the bowls.

As they ate, John discussed what he had found.

"Well, me and the Badger were at it for a while," John sighed before he took a bite out of his sandwich; the yolk from the eggs broke and poured out of the bitten area. As he sat the sandwich down on his plate, he grabbed for his napkins and wiped away the yolk that stuck to him. Soon after he finished chewing, John began again. "I can't tell you much, because it is classified information, and the bylaws that would inflict punishment if the wrong ears hear. I can tell you that, we couldn't find the model of the vehicle you witnessed."

Owen chewed on his sugary cereal, working his way through the marshmallows, as he listened to John. It came no surprised he coughed when John said they couldn't find the model of the vehicle. As he drank some of the milk, John continued.

"So, we looked for the plate number. Found nothing there. So, the Badger had the thought of using cameras they got all around London. This is where it gets more interesting. Now, neither make or model and plate number exists, how does it show up on camera?" John gave a toothy grin.

Owen felt something in his heart he never felt in the longest time, uplifted, joyful, and outright happiness. John and the Badger found the Mustang. It confused him that neither make or model and the plate were actually registered. How did they drive around without being ticketed or pulled over?

"That's grand, Dr. Watson, but, if they weren't registered then how did they not get a ticket?" Owen inquired as John took another bite of his sandwich. After taking another bite, he wiped his face again, and responded to Owen. "Good question, found out something interesting as well."

"Oh?" Owen further became interested in what John had to say. John nodded as he grabbed his cup of coffee. Sipping on it, John grimaced at the grinds that seeped through, causing him to sit the cup down. Done coughing, John finally said, "You said you reported the break-ins, correct?"

Owen nods. John gave another toothy grin. "Seems like someone wasn't doing their job, I found no files or paperwork regarding your break-ins, not a reference either," John told him. "Thought maybe someone's unique filing system was to blame, figured it in, Badger made some calls. No one has ever heard of your break-ins."

Finishing up the first cereal, Owen slurped down the sugary latent milk. Hearing John say that there were no records of the break-ins made the milk going down taste sour. Setting down the empty plastic bowl, Owen attempted to understand. "You mean, no one even took down notes. I talked to the policemen," Owen shook his head in confusion.

He went down to the LPD every time he had a break-in and talked to the different policemen at the counter. Yet, they all told him the same thing. He was sure they were writing down the break-ins, he saw them writing on the counter. While he couldn't see exactly, he swore that they were.

"Do you remember their names?" John inquired.

Owen pondered as he dug deep within his mind trying to find the information that lay dormant. Vaguely, he remembered them, as he thought they were odd. They weren't anything outrageous or foreign, but, something about them rubbed him the wrong way. He didn't know why, they were pretty common surnames last he remembered.

"Oh, the first one I talked to had Brown on his tag," Owen remembered as he continued pulling information out of his mind.

When he went to report the crime, the policeman at the counter smelled of cigarettes. Owen thought this because he saw a small red carton sticking out of the breast pocket. However, he wasn't familiar with the brand and the cigarette smell wasn't anything he smelt before. It didn't have the tar smell, instead it smelt more natural. Tabaco leaves, to be sure, but some other floral additives, and some sort of mint.

John pulled out his trusty notepad and wrote down the surname. Owen continued pulling names as John wrote them down. "Um, the second one had Jones on his," Owen scooped up the slightly soft cereal from his second bowl as John wrote it down.

The second policeman Owen spoke with seemed just as peculiar as the last. He seemed more relaxed than the previous policeman, but, something about him was odd too. On that day they had a bowl of candy on the counter, because a class was taking a trip to the LPD, and he had been rummaging through it while he talked with Owen. He became rather disappointed when he didn't find the candy he wanted, he never said what candy in particular he was looking for. Dejected, he grabbed a green apple lollipop and stuck it in his mouth.

The third and final one Owen talked to, was the mental cherry on top, he didn't have any quirks like the previous two had, and he seemed rather serious. More serious than anyone that Owen ever met before; because he was stone faced, and not one for jokes. When Owen talked to him, he swore his blood froze in fear.

"The last one I talked to, Smith," Owen thought back.

John nodded as he wrote it down. He stopped and shoved the notepad back in his pocket before resting a hand under his chin, pondering. "Are you positive they wrote down everything you told them?" he asked. Owen shrugged. John furrowed his brow and responded, "Very odd indeed."

"Dr. Watson, have you found out anything about the missing patient files?" Owen inquired. John nodded and his eagerness faded and became dejected. Owen noticed this and frowned.

John sighed as he glimpsed to his half-eaten sandwich, the yolk running down the bitten area onto the starch white plate. "An intern did have partial seizures, a history of them. He did in fact lose patient files in an episode. He was supposed to have gotten a few patient files for transfers but his episode started and he grabbed a whole bunch of files. In his episode he did in fact leave the files in an open area, the rubbish disposal area, "John summed for Owen.

"My file is really missing, then?" Owen sheepishly asked.

John nodded. "It's been thrown in the back of a lorry. The hospital did file a police report per protocols and it is planning to notify affected parties next week," he informed Owen.

Owen nodded and as he scooped up the remaining cereal he frowned. "Has Mr. Holmes spoken to you at all?" he inquired further. John shook his head in response.

"Only told me what happened. He never said what he was doing or what he was planning," John replied as he watched Owen slurp down the remaining milk from the second bowl. "I don't even know where he went."

Owen rested the second bowl on the table and reached for his napkins, wiping away the droplets of milk stuck to his light beard slowly coming through since he hadn't shaved for a few days since after meeting Sherlock the first time.

"Well, what are we going to do now, Dr. Watson?" Owen asked him.

John pondered this himself and finally said to Owen. "Well, Sherlock is in one of his moods, so we'll have to figure it out on our own. So, since we know now the Mustang is unregistered, no doubt they'll want to keep exposure to a minimal. They'll have to use backroads and the like to keep from being seen by the police. Doesn't mean no one didn't see them, if they're going the backroads, Sherlock had quite a few contacts that make the backroads their home, suppose they seen the Mustang. "

Finishing up their breakfast, the two disposed of their trash respectfully and when John tucked his plate and utensils in their respected bins, the two walked out of the communal area. Checking out of the hotel for the time being, Owen walked with John out of the hotel and toward the curb. John hailed a cab for them and one pulled up. Entering the cab, John gave directions to the cabby and the cab pushed away from the curb and joined the outgoing traffic.


	14. The Mustang, Pt I

The cab pulled to the curb on a busy road. Owen and John stepped out and John paid the cabby. As the cab pulled off, Owen glimpsed around, it was quite busy, and if the Mustang came through here someone was bound to notice the plates. "You think they saw it, Dr. Watson?" Owen sheepishly asked him as he follow John toward an alleyway that lead into an area big enough for vehicles to drive through. John pondered this before responding with, "It's our best chance. I'd ask the Badger to put out a post about it, but, he told me it wasn't possible. Said that he was busy enough he couldn't pull out all the stops. So, this is as good a plan I have. Unless, Sherlock ends up appearing at some point in our journey to lend a helping hand, but, knowing him he's probably stomping around like a madman."

The backroad they headed had less traffic than the main roads. While it was busy, there were points where it was quiet. No one was there, not even a car. John knew his way better than Owen and Owen made sure to follow John's every move. Owen never walked the backroads before. He wasn't even sure what to make of it. It was like a compare and contrast, where the main roads were neat and tidy but the backroads were gangly and not very well kept, only enough to be passible by vehicles. At night as John described, some of the backroads had barely any light, but, they've been slowly replacing torches with solar panels instead. The problem was with hoodlums with an attitude and a lack of concern who intentionally break the torches.

"Mr. Holmes isn't afraid of coming through here?" Owen wondered as John led him. John shrugged his shoulders as he replied, "He's been on a short leash this last few months. I hate to say this, Mr. van Burton, but, Sherlock has been using again. I caught a needle stowed away in his flat. He tried playing it off, as always, and after some threats and a phone call, he was forced into a program. Of course he got himself kicked out, guess what happened there. So, if there's anyone who knows Sherlock better than me, it's his dealers."

Hearing that Sherlock, the Great Detective, has done heroin made Owen do a second take as to what John said to him. Sherlock never came off as a user to him, even when they first met, he didn't look like he'd used anything. Eccentric, maybe, but Owen never thought he'd risk losing his reputation and livelihood to shoot up. It reminded him that even people like Sherlock have their problems.

"I'd never-I'd never expect that, Dr. Watson," Owen shook his head at this. John sighed and nods; clearly, it wasn't the first time he had to tell someone this. "Oh, believe me, it's a struggle. If it were up to me I would've called his mother and have her deal with him, but, I can't exactly do that. So, I toss it to Badger and have him deal with it. Sherlock won't listen to me anyway," John frowns as he remembered the times where Sherlock had used and how often he had to phone Mycroft to deal with it. While John could've forced Sherlock to quit, Sherlock always found a way to undermine him.

Walking along the backside of buildings, there were bins that gave off a horrible smell. Old food, rotted, used toilet paper and other hygiene products, all sorts of smells that made Owen's nose wince in agony. John led him toward a depot area, there, two people sat on the steps of the walkway. Turning his head toward Owen, John warned him, "Careful, they may be Sherlock's contacts, but, they are just as violate as he is."

Owen grimaced as this, but tried to save face as they neared them.

A woman and a man, older looking, crevices in the face, and judging by their teeth or lack off, they seemed to been users as well, still are by their eyes. John coughed before he said to them, "I suppose Sherlock told you to expect us?"

They shrug their shoulders. "Suppose he did," said the man. "Suppose he didn't," said the woman. "What's it to you?" they questioned.

John crossed his arms at them. "I've only come to make inquires, nothing more," he told them. They looked at each other briefly before turning their heads back to John. "What kind of inquires?" the woman asked him. "What's it for?" the man asked second.

John furrowed his brows at them as he explained, "Have you seen any odd vehicles come through here. Any with the plate number 70858?"

They looked back to each other, as if silently discussing something, before turning their heads back. "Don't know what you're talking about," the woman said. "I ain't telling anything," the man refused.

Their refusal piqued John's and Owen's interest. They clearly knew something. "So, it did come through here," John said accusingly as he uncrossed his arms. "You saw it, haven't you?"

They refused to answer or indicate they did.

Owen frowned at this. They weren't telling anything and even if they were they weren't likely to been descriptive. No doubt they've seen it, but, they weren't admitting it. Suppose, the men made sure they weren't going to talk.  
"We saw nothing," the man and woman affirmed. John frowned and crossed his arms again. He turned toward Owen and Owen saw cogs in his head turning.

"You're not the only one who's afraid," John began as he gestured at Owen. Owen took notice and came forward. "He's afraid, too."

Owen cleared his throat before he started. "They've broken into my flat so many times, they haven't kill me, and I don't know why they let me live. They've stalked me so much I was afraid of going outside unless I absolutely had to. They killed my landlady, a defenseless old woman. She didn't deserve to die, not like that. Please, if you know something, tell us. Help us stop them before they hurt someone else," he felt tears building up behind his eyes.  
The man and woman looked at him, studying him. Their expression changed, they knew he was telling the truth and meant every word. They turned to each other before turning back to him.

"We saw some car come down here the last couple of days," the woman began, looking around, seeing if they were being watched. "Tinted windows, couldn't see what was inside, but it felt like we were being watched, leered at even," the man whispered, looking behind him before looking back. "I never saw anyone come out of it. Not even the windows coming down, don't even know how many people are in it."

"This car, is it a Mustang?" Owen inquired.

The man and woman looked at each other before shaking their heads. "They all look the same to me," the man sighed. "Don't know much about them," the woman shook her head.

Owen looked at John and John looked at him. They both looked weary. "The car, how often does it come through here?" Owen asked the woman and man.

"Hadn't seen it for a while now, used to come around at odd hours," they said in response.

Owen tilted his head, "You haven't seen it since?"

They shook their heads and Owen frowned. John tilted his head as he asked, "When you saw it, did it go anywhere in particular?"

The man and woman pondered before responding, "When they're coming down here, they turn a right at the corner. When they come up they go a left."

John and Owen gave a look to each other before they thanked the man and woman. Following John, Owen pondered at the specific directions the Mustang went. "Right, looks like we established a pattern," John concluded as he stopped where the Mustang would turn if it came up. He stopped as he pondered. "Left, left, they're going left to get to you. If we follow this street up and make a left and a right turn, we'd be at the diner. Go further up from there, that's your flat."

Owen flinched at this. "Why not use the backroads closer to the diner and the flat?" he asked John. "Why here, it's a little too far. Someone would see it, wouldn't they?"

"Either they're that thick headed they're willing to do it or they want to establish alibi," John summed as he walked with Owen down to where the Mustang came down. "It seems much, though," Owen mused. John shook his head as he told Owen, "You haven't seen some of the cases we were on. Subtly is something of a card trick. Either the criminals are subtle enough to hide under our noses or so blatant it actually hurts."

That made sense to Owen, John and Sherlock would have netted a variety of criminals and the like. Learning how they function comes with the job.

Walking with John, Owen noticed something off. As they walked down the alley, past the bins and the overbearing odor, where would the men go when they weren't in the Mustang?

"Alright, the right," John recalled what the man and woman told them. He stopped as he noticed; there was nothing but a wall to a brick and mortar store on his left. Owen look at the right and tilted his head, a spacious area meant for lorries and such vehicles to easily turn around and go up the alley without getting stuck. There was no exit, not means for the men to stealthy leave without anyone noticing.

"I don't get it, how," Owen whispered as John stepped toward the area, glancing around the area.

"I don't know, maybe they went into the storefronts backdoors?" John suggested. Owen felt that it wasn't the answer. They wouldn't go through the backdoors, people would see them, and he doubted they wanted to risk having to kill anyone else. Police were already searching for Sheila's murderer; they weren't going to incite the police more. Yet, they couldn't've walked through the alley; people would see them there, too.

"Dr. Watson, has this happened to you before?" Owen asked him. John shook his head. "Nothing like this," he answered as he turned around to face Owen.

"If not through the backdoors or walking, where do they go?" John questioned. Owen pondered this himself and crossed his arms. "How do they not get spotted by the lorry drivers or people who come out to toss out the rubbish?" he questioned.

John blinked as he pondered this. "They're coming at odd hours, got to be. They know the schedules of everyone working in the stores here. They know the routes the lorry drivers take to get here, the time they get here to the time they clear out. It has to be," John concluded.

"Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes' contacts, they saw the Mustang, enough to reasonably describe it. If they killed Sheila, why haven't they killed them yet?" Owen worried as he remembered Sheila.

"I don't know, I'll have Lestrade send someone to keep an eye on them," John grabbed his mobile and began texting.

As John texted, Owen continued to walk around the spacious area. There were no loading bays or any way for the Mustang to simply disappear without trace. Nothing but oil stains and rotted rubbish stuck the ground; they had to been close, and enough to observe the Mustang while it was not in use.

Owen glanced up to the top of the building and stopped, tall buildings overlooked the alley. They were businesses, but, the windows were big enough for employees to see the alley clearly. Owen chewed on the bottom of his lip, they had little information on the Mustang, finding out where it was parked was enough, but, no owners or any positive IDs made it impossible to conclusively put the Mustang at the scene of the murder. He stopped when he felt that feeling again. That feeling that hadn't crept up in a long time since he went to Sherlock for help. It was wrong, piercing, and it surrounded him.

"You know our schedule that's how you broke into my flat. You knew Sheila's, that's how you got in; she always took two sleeping pills before going to bed. You knew that," Owen muttered as he twisted and turned, trying to find the source of that feeling. He stopped when he remembered the buildings and his hazel eyes moved up to the countless windows. "You knew everything about me. You knew I'd go to Mr. Holmes. You're the reason the police never knew what happened. You're manipulating everyone, that's how you managed to frighten Sheila."

He stopped when it came to him. These men, whoever they were, they may have frightened Sheila and broke into Owen's flat, but they were cautious to the point of fault. They weren't going to simply do as they pleased they were rigid in their plans. They also wouldn't go after old women just because she might identify them. No, they weren't going to be exposed. They weren't worried at all. She wouldn't go and tell all, they did enough to keep her quiet.

If not them that did it, who did?

"If it wasn't them, then, who killed Sheila and why?" Owen muttered under his breath.


	15. The Mustang, Pt II

Owen blinked slowly as he looked up at the windows. No one there, not that he seen, yet the feeling was strong. He glanced around the surrounding area and found no one there. He nearly jumped when John returned after texting Lestrade.

"Dr. Watson, something's wrong," Owen told him. John blinked as he tilted his head in confusion. "What's wrong, what happened?" he worried as Owen spun around the area.

"They didn't kill Sheila," Owen shook his head. He saw John still confused and he explained slowly. "Why would they kill Sheila? She didn't tell me anything. She wasn't going to the police. They frightened her enough to keep her quiet. It's not their style. They don't want attention, Dr. Watson."

John listened to him and slowly nodded, trying to understand the implications Owen was presenting. He stopped when it clicked in his head. It made sense to him, finally. These men, they were subtle. They only wanted Owen. They wanted as few people to see them as possible, enough for plausible deniability. Killing would be ineffective, stupid, it'd put them at a disadvantage. Cogs turned in John's head as he concluded what Owen said. The men did not kill Sheila, but if not them, who did and what was their connection?

"Suppose they had hired help?" John suggested to Owen as Owen looked up at the buildings. In his gut he knew, they wouldn't do that, it'd mean loose ends. Even the most unsavory folk would've talked if they knew they had something to lose. No, it wasn't hired. Some could suggest it was a lunatic they brought off the street, but that wasn't it. They wanted as little noise as possible. A ravaged lunatic couldn't be subtle and could've been problematic. A criminal, tossed the job by the men as means to an end, as a criminal he would take any means to keep himself out of prison, even if it meant killing. Again, loose ends and even some criminals had standards. No, it was something else.

"No, it wasn't hired help. Certainly wasn't someone they blackmailed into the job. Dr. Watson, I believe this is someone independent from them. If they'd killed Sheila, they've made sure she wouldn't make a sound. I heard her, Dr. Watson, this person, whoever he or she was, used a sword and didn't make sure she was quiet," Owen insisted as John looked at him.

John chewed on the bottom of his lip as he ran a hand through his platinum blond hair. This whole thing just seemed so peculiar. Everything seemingly tied to the only person they centered: Owen. Owen seemed to have been a receptacle of the unexplained events.

"Okay, think back, Mr. van Burton, think back to the furthest you can go," John began as he tried to find a missing puzzle. "Was there anyone we may have missed?"

Owen tried his hardest to think back. All this has taken a number on his mind. His mind usually orderly and well-kept became a mess of chaos. He tried numerous times to think back to any plausible person who may have harmed Sheila. His mind faltered as he pushed it further, but as he did he begun to feel groggy. No matter how much he tried, he could barely make it past the first week this all began. It was foggy and no amounts of trying to pop a memory with using trigger words worked.

"I can't think of anyone, Dr. Watson," Owen spoke dejectedly. "I can't remember anything. I have no idea who could've done this."

"It's alright, Mr. van Burton, perhaps Sheila indeed have any enemies?" John grasped for straws at this point as he attempted to find a plausible cause. In the reports and statistics, people murdered often knew their murderers, the same goes for multiple crimes. Sheila had to have known her killer, how else would her killer get into the flat without anyone hearing it?

"Dr. Watson, she didn't _have_ any enemies. She may have problems with her friends at card games, but, they're not the type to have her killed," Owen thought back as his hazel eyes moved around the windows, on the back of his neck the hairs stood up as the feeling buzzed through his whole body.

John sighed as he tried to come up with an alternative explanation. It was difficult as they had nothing to go by and Owen unable to come up with people who may have had problems with Sheila. The only other explanation he had was she was killed because of her proximity to Owen.

John exhaled as he tapped his fingers along the bezel of his mobile, trying hard to find out a plausible cause. "Mr. van Burton, what _if_ the men who broke into your flat were hired," John suddenly suggested.

It made sense, why would potentially three men come after Owen, unless they were hired by someone else. John and Sherlock had cases with this before and often the ones who hired them were after something or someone. That would explain why they were so professional. That kind of professionalism doesn't come cheap and that would be something to look into.

Owen listened and something else crept into his mind. If those men were hired help, then perhaps, there was more to Sheila's death than they realized.

"What if whoever hired them _killed_ Sheila?" Owen suggested to John. "He's getting tired of waiting for his hired help to make their move so he's helping them along."

"Mr. van Burton, I know we've asked this several times, but, are you positive _beyond_ reasonable doubt, you don't know anything that may have caused this?" John sucked air through his teeth as he tried formulating ideas that potentially could help them.

Owen forced his mind into overtime as he tried to pull out the reasons why he was being targeted. He never got into trouble, he got out of drugs when he did and his dealers weren't coming back, and he always made sure the websites he worked with weren't tied criminally.

"I don't know, Dr. Watson, I swear I don't know. I feel like that Truman bloke. I don't know why I'm being targeted. It feels like I'm being watched everywhere I go," Owen covered his face as he tried to repress the tears that built up in his tear ducts.

John comforted him. As he touched Owen's shoulder, Owen noticed something odd. He didn't feel John's hand. Not even the small pressure. When John patted his shoulder, Owen didn't feel it at all. Perhaps the stress had affected his nerves.

Owen chewed on the bottom of his lips as he then said, "What if it's a crazy, you two dealt with a lot of them, haven't you?"

John slowly nodded his head. A lot of people with screws loose tended to target him and Sherlock. The biggest been Moriarty and his schemes nearly gotten him and Sherlock killed. Others that came after weren't as deadly as him, but were up there. This whole case been crazy and the strange occurrences that resulted in the death of Sheila, perhaps indeed, it was someone who had loose screws.

"If we go off that, someone may have spotted you, something got into their head, and they went after you over it. Someone who is both very rich and powerful or stole quite a bit of money, I doubt someone rich and powerful would've gone through all this to get caught. So, someone with the means to steal money used it to hire the men breaking into your flat," John summed his thoughts.

Owen lowered his hands and his eyes reddened from the tears that remained on them since they were unable to fall down his cheeks. It sounded convoluted, absolutely convoluted, but as it stood everything did. The sheer idea that this was all a twisted game by someone, that they'd go the distance to make happen, killing an elderly woman to cement that, getting people to stalk an innocent man for their own amusement. Another idea that a mentally ill person who has the means to do this seemed frivolous in comparison, Owen barely had contact with anyone and he was another face in a crowd when he walked to and fro from home to work.

"Why me…?" Owen croaked, choking back on tears. "I'm just an accountant, I don't _know_ anything. I have barely any money in the bank. I'm a hermit. Why me…?"

"It's possible they're doing it because you're a hermit, you barely have any money, and police as it stands had no knowledge of any of this. You're not alone, Mr. van Burton," John comforted him. "But you have to be strong. Evidently they mean to break you down, wear you down until you can't fight back."

Owen took a deep breath and exhaled. As he did, he nodded, agreeing with John. He had to be strong, he had to end this, and it won't end with him acting like a man baby. He wanted to avenge Sheila, even if they had their differences in the past and her constant yelling.

"You're right; I can't keep on like this. I won't keep on like this. Sheila always said I ought to learn courage. Let's start now, I'm not going to let them win," Owen sniffed as he bit down hard on his bottom lip, reminding himself of the vow.

John nodded and gestured with his hand. "Come on, let's go, we can check another area where Sherlock's dealers hang around and see if they saw the Mustang," he said.

Owen nodded and walked with him. Walking behind John, Owen still felt the lingering feeling of being watched. The man and woman were already gone and it was just them now, so, he took on a face he never had before and leered into the unknown, challenging whoever was watching to come out.

They never did and it felt like the feeling went away instantly. Taking a deep breath, Owen followed John out into the busy roads and stopped when they saw… it… parked right in front of them, the Mustang.

John held his arm outreached, keeping Owen behind him. Everything began to melt in Owen's mind as they saw the Mustang parked there, silently.

"Dr. Watson, that's the Mustang," Owen whispered. John nodded.

Owen looked at the Mustang; the tinted windows prevented him from seeing inside. He didn't know how many men were inside, if they were armed or not. He wasn't able to discern anything other than this was the Mustang that he had seen at Bruno's.

Deep within Owen, anger bubbled and he shook his head. He pushed John's arm away and stomped toward the Mustang's driver side window and bent down to leer into the darkened window. "You listen to me," he began, seething as he shook his head. "I don't know _who_ put you up to this. Why you even took it in the first place of things. I'm _sick_ of it. I don't know _who_ you are, but, I don't care. You want _me_ so bad, well, here I am, come take me!"

He held his arms outreached, veins lightly popping in his neck as he felt his blood boil. John grabbed one his hands and dragged him away from the Mustang. "Mr. van Burton, you don't know if they have a gun!" he shouts at Owen. Owen shouted at the Mustang in response, "Then shoot me, right here, look _at_ me, I'm a walking target!"

He held a hand over his stomach. "Come _get_ me!"

Suddenly the window for the driver's side came down, humming as it did. When it fully receded into the car door, Owen stopped and took deep breaths as he and John looked. "I think you got their attention," John said to Owen. Owen nods as he said, "Yeah, I think I did too."

John suggested they get away from the Mustang, but Owen puffed up his chest and marched toward the driver's side again and bent down. "You want me, you can have me!" Owen barked into the driver's seat and almost stumbled backwards when he realized who it was sitting in the driver's seat.

"M-Mr. Holmes…!" Owen gasped as he felt himself turn bright red in embarrassment. It was not the men he was shouting at, it was Sherlock. Sherlock poked his head out and seemed rather amused at Owen's outburst.  
"I see your courage is coming along nicely," Sherlock grinned at him. Owen stuttered as he tried saying, "Oh god, I'm so-so sorry, I didn't know it wasn't you."

"Sherlock, what the _hell_ are you doing?" John shouted at him as he stepped beside Owen. "You nearly had us bloody mad!"

"I found it!" Sherlock cheerfully said as he gestured in the interior of the Mustang.

Owen stood there with confusion planted on his face. John tilted his head as he held his arms outreached. "Where the hell did you find it?" he asked. He didn't expect Sherlock to happily answer it. "I found it abandoned in a rubbish yard!" he smiled at John and Owen.

Owen tilted his head as he asked Sherlock, "What do you mean it's abandoned?"

Sherlock told him to look for the numbers and he did, instead of a plate there was nothing. They took off the plate before they abandoned the Mustang. "Why would they abandon it, what were they thinking that it wouldn't tie back to them?" John inquired while Sherlock settled in the driver's seat. Sherlock shook his head as he casually rested his hands on the steering wheel. "It can't be tied to them, it wasn't registered," he explained to John.

John shook his head as he reminded Sherlock, "Those tinted windows are expensive, surely someone ought to talk."

Sherlock scoffed as he pointed with his index finger. "If they took it to a shop to have them installed, you assumed. What purpose would that serve if it left you open to exposure?" he said in a tone that meant John should've known the answer to it.

John sighed as he tried to formulate what Sherlock had told him and stopped. His dark eyes jolted toward Sherlock with his mouth gape. "They used window film?" he couldn't tell whether to laugh or angrily yell.

Owen stood there confused. He couldn't believe what he heard. Window film, from a hardware store, they didn't go to a professional, they did it themselves. "Also, the Mustang was stolen from a dealer a while ago," Sherlock suddenly mentioned as he looked around. "And it was last reported driving out of a rubbish bin."

He quickly gotten out of the Mustang and began pushing John and Owen away, hurrying them along as in the distance sirens echoed. He hurried with them toward a corner far away from the Mustang and told them, "I found nothing, not even a follicle. They cleaned the Mustang before they dumped it."

"Why would they dump it?" John inquired while his brow rose. "Why would they do that?"

"Perhaps they dumped it because they knew it was only a matter of time before we found it. Not often this particular make and model is seen here, John, it's an import," Sherlock's light blue eyes glistened.

John crossed his arms. When he and Mycroft were searching for the Mustang, they found nothing on the make and model that Owen witnessed. No imports, no tags, nothing that would suggest it existed within legal reasons. It should've been tagged by police as an invalid vehicle and pulled over. "How is this possible, why now someone reported it stolen?" John demanded to know.

"John, they manipulated police records. If they can do that then they manipulated registration," Sherlock reminded John. John sighed and exhaled briefly before running a hand through his platinum blond hair. He shook his head as it felt one after another, something happened. "So, what do you think?" John blinked as he asked Sherlock. Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, "We have been asking for the Mustang. Logically, I believe they left it because they knew it was only a matter of time before we found it. I haven't found the men; the rubbish yard owner didn't know anything."

"They're gone now," Owen heard that same voice singing. When he looked around, no one was there. When he looked back, John and Sherlock looked at him confusingly. Shaking his head, Owen suggested, "What if they're gone. They left. They did what they were supposed to do?"

"What does that mean?" John glimpsed to Sherlock who looked Owen over, his light blue eyes studying him from the shoe up. "Means we're back to square one," Sherlock gruffly said.

He hailed a taxi, piling inside, he instructed the cabby to take them to his flat. As they sat in the backseat, John and Sherlock discussed ideas and plans. While they talked, Owen settled in his spot. He confronted something that troubled him for a while. He started hearing a voice. At first, he tried playing it off, stress and paranoia, always a concoction that caused this sort. It wasn't, though, he was hearing a voice.

Owen swore he wasn't sick. He thought it may have been his medication. It had to been his medication; he didn't start hearing the voice until Dr. Mason put him on a different dosage. Dr. Mason, he said there would be side effects, but, this was insane. The fact he heard this voice clearly and no one else did only drove it further. Owen decided once he left Sherlock's flat, he would head to the clinic and speak with Dr. Mason. While he could theoretically speak of this to John, he was rather ashamed, embarrassed, he didn't want John to think he'd finally snap from the pressure or some other. Even then, John couldn't help him much because he was not his doctor.

Owen gaze out of the window while the cab chugged along the busy roads.


	16. The Fall of the Porcelain Man

Sherlock made a pot of tea and served it to Owen and John who sat around Sherlock's flat. For the past hour they debated on the reason, the men abandoned the Mustang and the reason why they would suddenly abscond. Sherlock theorized before they left because they knew he and John were close on their trail. John disagreed and they left because they saw no reason to continue doing whatever they set out to do. Owen merely sat quietly on the plush sofa and squirmed at what possible reason they'd suddenly leave.

Maybe they did leave because Sherlock and John were getting too close. Maybe they did leave because they got bored and left, treating this whole event as a sick game. Owen dabbled in the ideas but one only stuck out in his mind, one that would not leave it and one that wormed further into his mind no matter how he tried to ignore it. They left because they finished what they started with Owen. Now, it was just Owen and whoever hired them, the same one who murdered Sheila and eluded Sherlock and John, and whoever it was, hid in the shadows and knew exactly how Sherlock and John worked, thus they were always ahead. What reason they wanted Owen and the only things spoken were ideas that someone from Owen's past came back and wanted him.

Trying to find out anything was simply impossible. It all seemed random from the moment it started. Someone targeting an innocent man who had no reason to been part of these mind games. A sadist who chose him as their victim seemed the most plausible answer, as Sherlock noted similar dealings with the late Moriarty. Moriarty would force his victims into playing deadly games and if they failed, mutilated bodies found in a horrific and bizarre fashion. However, Sherlock mentioned that Moriarty also wanted Sherlock's attention and made sure he knew that victims' lives were at stake and that if Sherlock wanted them to live, he'd have to play his games. No attempts from the unknown assailant to get Sherlock's attention, by assumption, they don't or didn't want him involved. It made sense when the target was Owen and the times something happened, Sherlock and John were absent or unable to react.

"Clearly, they're making sure to sidestep you along the way," John mentioned as he sipped on his tea. Sherlock nods as he furrowed his brow in deep thought. The unknown assailant made sure to never leave evidence of their presence and the only evidence they found came from the men.

It crossed Owen's mind numerous times, he almost didn't want to say it aloud at the risk of sounding idiotic. Yet, it kept popping up in his head no matter how he tried to brush it away. There was a specific reason for the men's presence, they weren't only there for Owen, they were there for a distraction. Whoever killed Sheila knew Sherlock couldn't resist. They knew he would chase them for however long it took to get him off the scent. The other reason the men left was that Sherlock was closer to catching them, thus breaking the necessary illusion. If they tempered their appearances, made sure Sherlock had some form of evidence that would lead him to them, he would be blind to the obvious. Now that the men were gone, what did it mean for the case?

Sherlock took notice of the possibility and muttered to himself before pacing around the flat with his arms behind his back. John crossed his arms and frowned after sitting down his teacup. "It's not an amateur," Sherlock deduced as he turned his head toward John and Owen. John then suggested to Sherlock, "Sherlock, what if they're targeting Owen because they want to get to you?"

It made perfect sense; it's been done more times Sherlock cared to count. He sighed as he rubbed his chin. "Probable, if they done with someone with influence it might backfire on them. Someone like Mr. van Burton, easier for anyone to write off as paranoid," he shrugged. "If so, who is it this time?"

"Well, your list of enemies is on-going; who'd you piss off _this_ time?" John said flatly, as he looked at Sherlock.

Owen sat in uncomfortable silence, listening to what ifs and what nots as Sherlock and John threw around ideas and theories as to who was behind the entire scheme. Suppose it was someone who wanted to get to Sherlock. Someone who isn't rightly in their heads that heard and read about Sherlock wanted him for whatever reason. Given his and John's reputation, it wasn't unheard of.

"I know something you don't know," sung a voice. Owen looked around, the voice was so clear and audible it sounded like it was right beside him. He continued until he noticed John and Sherlock looking at him, confused as to why he suddenly started looking around. "Mr. van Burton, are you alright?" John inquired, worried. Sherlock added, "Is something wrong?"

Owen grew embarrassed, shying away from answering any of their questions. He shook his head as he stood up. "It's getting late, I should head back to the hotel," he said. John and Sherlock grew concerned and one of them said he ought to come with, making sure Owen got back safely. Owen shook his head again profusely and said he'd be fine. After arguing a few minutes, Owen opened the door and began walking down the stairs. As he did, he began noticing something, he thought it'd been the echo, but, as he continued walking down, the sound of footsteps behind him continued. Stopping at the bottom of the staircase, Owen turned around, he assumed it'd been either John or Sherlock that snuck out and tried to catch him off guard. He found no one there, just him.

Owen felt his stomach churned and he hurried out of the building and rushed to the curb. He hailed for a cab and it pulled up to the curb. Getting in, Owen exhaled sharply as he blinked several times. He gave the name of the clinic and the cab pulled away from the curb. As he settled in his seat, he put a hand on the side of his head as he tried to comprehend the voice, the second pair of footsteps behind him.

"I'm not crazy," he sucked air through his teeth. "I'm not crazy!"

Within two hours due to congestion and accidents, Owen got out of the cab after paying for the fare and walked into the clinic. Dali sat in her spot, typing on the computer. When he got up to the counter, she glanced up and asked, "Yes, may I help you?"

"Is Dr. Mason in?" Owen asked her. She seemed concerned and asked him, "Hasn't he called you?"  
"No, I don't think so, it's been a long day," Owen replied. Dali explained that Dr. Mason transferred unexpectedly to another hospital further up north and that Owen would have to go to another doctor, Dr. Matthews. The news came to a shock to Owen, as he was unable to comprehend what Dali said to him. When it finally settled in, Owen explained his maladies and Dali listened. "I can get you an appointment with Dr. Matthews, it'll be tomorrow morning first thing," she offered him as Owen stood there. Creeping into his head, that voice, "Don't bother, he can't help you."

Owen blinked several times and felt sharp pains in his head. When Dali offered assistance, he brushed her off and left the clinic. The pain went away after some time in the open air and Owen felt weight on his shoulders. The feeling of helplessness gnawed at him like a rabid dog and he was incapable of ridding it. The feeling of failure closely behind as he felt nothing he did offered viable explanation for what was happening. Then, the feeling of dread as he had no way of knowing what was going to happen. Sheila was dead, that was all that they got out of the investigation she died because of him and even if he didn't, she died, and he did nothing.

Owen vowed never again, but it drew him back to it. The only thing consistent in his life, the one that nearly took it before, he needed it again, he needed the edge taken off and if nothing more, it was the only thing that he was familiar with it. He hailed for another cab and instructed it along the way, once it pulled up to an alleyway; Owen paid the fare and got out. As the cab pulled away, he walked through the alleyway and there were two men. One tall and one short, the short man received a carefully wrapped baggie and slowly walked away with his eyes on the ground. The tall man counted his money and stopped when he noticed Owen.

"As I live and breathe," the tall man exhaled as Owen walked over to him. Owen nodded as he said, "Russel."  
"What the hell are you doing here?" he asked. "I thought you quit."

"I did," Owen nods. "I thought I did."

Russel noticed his appearance and inquired, "What the hell happened to you?"  
"Where do I begin?" Owen sighed as he looked around. "Well, how much…?"

Russel looked hesitant as he reminded Owen, "You made me promise to never sell to you again."

"Things changed," Owen shrugged as Russel stared at him, concern in his eyes. "I thought you and your brother liked repeat customers."

"Sure do, but, you swore you'd never take it again," Russel was in disbelief of what he was hearing from Owen and Owen remained affirmed he wanted to buy again.

"I need it, Russel, if I don't get it I'm worried I'm going to do something," Owen emotionally told him. Russel listened and he slowly nodded. "Same price," Russel finally broke down and agreed to sell.

Owen received a baggie and Russel got his payment. Russel stopped him for a moment and asked, "Level with me, what the hell's happening to you?"

"I don't know, I don't know anymore," Owen honestly said as he disappeared from view. He stowed away the baggie and found his way back to the hotel without wasting more money on cabs. He returned to his room, locked the door behind him, and walked to the table near the wall. Bringing a chair up to it, Owen sat down, brought out the baggie, and prepared three neat lines. He carefully made sure they were even and readied. In the background, the television left on the music channel, playing another song from Red Children.

* * *

"Gaudy dresses,

Fake smiles,

Eyes like marbles,

You instill fake emotions,

As you, cause great commotions.

Gaudy dresses you wear for the news,

Showing off your heartfelt desire to the whole wide world.

* * *

If you could see yourself in my own eyes,

Then maybe you can see the lies you spew,

You're the beauty no one will ever admire,

You're the lies that paint the world,

No one knows the real you.

You're the indisputable,

You're the absolute,

Everything you desire you gain through any means.

You're the lost beauty that once was,

Taken by the spell of the unknown,

Never seen again, forgotten by time itself.

* * *

How you feel isn't relevant,

As long as you have it all,

Needs and wants are not important

Now you know the mystery of the desire.

So deceit and go round and round again,

For another night in the beds of those

You ensnare in a web of lies for your own gain.

* * *

If you could see yourself in my own eyes,

Then maybe you can see the lies you spew.

You're the beauty no one will ever admire,

You're the lies that paint the world,

No one knows the real you.

You're the indisputable,

You're the absolute,

Everything you desire you gain through any means.

You're the lost beauty that once was,

Taken by the spell of the unknown,

Never seen again, forgotten by time itself.

* * *

You're the unbearable truth,

You're the indisputable absolute,

You're the smile that fades away in history,

Never seen or heard from again.

Maybe if you saw yourself,

You'd see the truth in my own eyes,

But maybe you can see yourself expire.

You're the indisputable,

You're the absolute,

Everything you desire you gain through any means.

You're the lost beauty that once was,

Taken by the spell of the unknown,

Never seen again, forgotten by time itself."

* * *

Feeling the effects slowly working their way through his body, Owen relaxed his muscles and waited. Closing his eyes he waited as he listened to the song from the table.


	17. The Beginning of the End

Owen opened his eyes slowly, the sight of light made them quiver in pain and tears built up in the tear duct. He dazzlingly looked around the hotel room, his vision blurry and his nerves raw. He scarce remembered anything he did the night before, only that he done the thing he promised himself he'd never do. His eyes glimpsed to the desk where he saw faint white remnants of the cocaine and noticed dried blood. It took time but he pushed his head up and rubbed his face with both hands. Dried flakes of blood came off from under his nostrils, stuck under his nails and parts of his hands. Unable to check his cellphone, having lost it somewhere in the hotel room, Owen decided to shower. Carefully with both hands firm on the desk, Owen pushed himself up from the desk and sauntered toward the bathroom. He flinched when he flicked the switch and covered his eyes, tears slipping from the tear ducts.

With one hand outreached, Owen felt around until he found the showerhead and the nozzle. Pulling it toward hot and pulling up the steel nozzle, water began pouring out and Owen began to undress. As he did, he noticed in the mirrors as he pulled off his shirt, a visible bruise on his back, near his right shoulder. To his confusion, the bruise came from a rather large hand. As he glimpsed closer, he noticed it welting in spots, as if he'd been burnt. Unable to remember anything last night, too dazed to comprehend the extent of this, Owen simply continued to undress and slipped into the shower. The hot water touching him woke him up considerably. His mind slowly snapped back into proper order as he washed his face, removing the dried blood and the dried mucus stuck in the inner nostrils.

Muttering to himself, Owen tried to wake himself up.

"What do I tell them," Owen mustered as he felt the water on him. "What do I say?"

Sherlock would know the moment he saw him he did cocaine. John would chide him for doing it, being he hadn't done it in years and the fact of it being dangerous to his health. Yet, he had no other choice in the matter. He couldn't outright explain it but in his head he felt a growing battle. A battle he didn't understand, but a battle he felt. "Maybe I am crazy."

After a half-hour in the shower, Owen mustered out of the stall and wrapped himself in a towel. He slowly blinked as he slowly moved through the doorway of the bathroom into the main room. Owen never noticed it and didn't know how he didn't, but as he walked he felt rigid. Stiff in his legs, he barely able to move, when he did it felt like he was a doll. It didn't help when he noticed something peculiar, when drying off and changing into his clothes he thought he imagined it but as he thought more about it, it began to feel like he wasn't. He started to sniff around the room and he without a doubt knew what it was. The same porcelain smell from the day before, this time it was coming from the corner of the room. After dressing, Owen walked around the room, sniffing the air. The porcelain smell thick and heavy, he was sure it coated every part of the room. Walking toward the corner where it originated from, Owen glanced around the corner. Nothing there, not even a floor grate. Nothing that'd explain the smell. Owen pondered this and slowly held his hand toward the corner when he heard the door knocking. It sounded cordial, not Sherlock's brand of knocking, so it had to been John checking up on him. Owen lowered his hand and struggled to say, "I'll-I'll be there in a minute!"

He remembered the desk and struggled to walk over to it; he quickly wiped away the remnants of his deed and hid the half-full baggie in his bag, under his trousers. Checking himself in the bathroom mirror, he noticed his eyes bloodshot and cringed. Coming up with a story seemed like an idea, but given John's medical degree and knowledge, lying would be in impossible as he would know Owen lied. Owen, without any way out of it, grimaced as he walked to the door. He chewed on the bottom of his lip as he slowly opened the door and peeked out.

"Sherlock ran off somewhere and left me to check on you," John informed him. Putting on a smile, Owen bowed his head slightly. He then asked John, "I know asking never works, but how are you two doing?"

John grimaced as he explained, "Sherlock went mad, up and down his flat, careening on the jagged edges of reality. He was trying his hardest to compare every known rapier in the history. He's even gone to online forums and asked around, though nothing came of it. He's been at it since nearly six. I don't think we'll see him for the rest of the day."

Hearing this, Owen frowned. It came no shock to Owen when they haven't found anything yet. He knew it wasn't going to be quick and easy like he originally hoped. Owen then asked, "How about you, anything new?"

"Ah, nothing, Sherlock took over majority of the work and I've been busy with Mary and the babe," John sighed as he rubbed his eyes. Owen frowned as he said, "I didn't mean to make you lose time with your family, Dr. Watson."

John chuckled as he told Owen, "Oh, Mary's used to his eccentric ways, if you can even call them eccentric. I'm used to him dragging me out of bed every time he wants something done at this point. It's become my sixth sense, as if I knew ahead of time when he's about to poke his curly head out from somewhere wanting me."

It made sense; working with Sherlock might've given John some sense of schedules. Sherlock, while unpredictable, had some predictability with how he often reached out to John to the point John knew exactly when he's needed. "It's a living," John shrugged. "Sherlock wanted me to check on you and for you to come with me back over to his flat."

Nodding, Owen asked John to wait a few minutes as he looked around his hotel room for his phone. He asked Frank if he'd seen the phone but the turtle wasn't talking that morning so he was on his own. He checked underneath his bed, in his bag, in the bathroom, and near the desk, but he could not find his phone. He was sure he had it last night; he remembered having it at some point. As he looked around for his phone, he heard a light thud near his feet. Turning his head, Owen noticed his cellphone resting at the heel of his left foot. "Where was it?" he muttered as he reached behind and grabbed it. Standing up, Owen checked it and noticed no new messages. Sighing, Owen walked out of the hotel room and locked it.

"Why does he want me at his flat for?" Owen inquired as he walked with John. John shrugged. "I have no idea, but knowing Sherlock it's going to involve something he found and how it relates to the crime and above everything else we'll in for a helluva long day," he sighed as Owen nodded.

The way John described it, it could've been anything. Sherlock might've found the weapon that killed Sheila, he might've found the thieves who stolen the Mustang. Whatever it is, it was in the air.


	18. The Endgame

Arriving at the flat once again, Owen walked with John into the building. Mrs. Hudson greeted Owen and Owen greeted back before Mrs. Hudson asked John what was going on in Sherlock's flat. It sounded like someone was struggling and she gotten worried. John assured her everything was all right and dragged Owen up the stairs and forced his way into the flat. Tied to the chair, was someone Owen recognized and he struggled in the chair as Sherlock tied him with cables.

"What the _hell_ is going, Sherlock, have you gotten into the habit of kidnapping?" John asked him as Owen walked toward the man. Sherlock rolled his eyes and replied with, "He wasn't being nice."

"Sherlock," Owen looked at him. "Why's he here?"

Russel looked at Sherlock and attempted to shout slurs at him. However, Sherlock gagged him so it only came out as nothing but garbled mess. Sherlock paid no attention to Russel and only said to Owen, "They found prints on the rapier that beheaded Sheila."

Owen's stomach dropped, as he looked at Russel whose dark eyes moved toward Owen. Owen shook his head, "You killed Sheila, why would you kill her she did nothing to you!"

"Actually, she did, Mr. van Burton. She attempted to tell you all along that he had been harassing her," Sherlock corrected him. Owen turned his head to Sherlock after he said it. "What do you mean he's been harassing her?" he asked. Sherlock showed him the letters Sheila wrote about how she been plagued by Russel, he wanted information on Owen and he threatened her repeatedly to keep her quiet. She was going to sneak the letters to Owen so he would know and get help right away. However, Russel found out and dealt with her himself. Decapitating her as punishment for it and propped her head up in a borough as warning to anyone else who dared to warn those marked.

It hit Owen to the point he had to take a seat on the sofa and shook his head. He did not want to believe Russel would do this to him. He seemed like himself when Owen visited him to buy. He would never do anything like this, even when he was angry. He would get his brother to deal with anyone who cheapened out on deals, but he would never resort to this sort of violence. "Why?" Owen looked at Russel square in the eye. "Why did you do this?"

"I will let _him_ tell you, Mr. van Burton," Sherlock walked over to Russel and ungagged him. Russel took deep breaths as his body greedily absorbed fresh oxygen. Looking at Owen, Russel lowered his head as he said, "When you told me you were quitting for good, I didn't believe you. I waited and waited for your British _arse_ to come back to get more. You never did. You were my _best_ customer. I made more money off you than I did from low rung idiots. I didn't think I needed your arse to run my business, but I got in a pinch. On the account of my brother, I couldn't leave London to find somewhere else to sell. Couldn't look for you, you didn't leave much a way of a paper trail. Look, I told it all to him."

He looked at Sherlock who shot him a nasty glare. Sherlock immediately said, "But why did you kill her, Russel."

Russel raised his head a little before saying, "She was gonna weasel. Going to tell him, I was looking for him. I couldn't have her tell him because if he ran I wasn't gonna find him again. Okay, there, I killed her."

His voice seemed almost depraved. It was as if he was only telling them what they wanted to hear. Sherlock took it as the truth and thus Owen and John did too. Owen then asked him, "Why, why a rapier?"

Russel lowered his head again before he said, "I found it. Found it near the place. I didn't think it was that sharp. I thought if I could use it to threaten her, she'd won't tell you I was looking for you. I don't know what happened, but, she was dead and I was standing there with a bloody rapier. I panicked and I dropped the rapier."

Owen shook his head as he stood up and walked toward Russel. "You killed a defenseless woman just because you wanted me to start buying again?" he shouted at Russel. "When you could have asked me, could have contacted me proper, you done all this and now a woman's dead and you had to use her head as a mark?"

Russel shook his head repeatedly. "I did-didn't take her head, I swear to you Owen. I didn't mean to kill her. It just happened. You have to believe me. I wouldn't kill some old bag even when she was gonna oust me. That's not my thing, I swear. I swear I dropped the damn rapier and ran!" he pleaded with Owen.

Owen refused to believe him and accused him. "You sent men to break into my damn flat, Rus. You sent men to terrorize my old boss. You sent them to stalk me. Why the hell should I believe you?" he pointed at Russel who flinched. He shook his head again and said, "You don't understand. You don't understand!"

"Then help us understand, Russel," Sherlock eyed him. Russel shot him a look before frowning. "I swear on Santa Maria I didn't know what was going on," he pleaded. "It just happened. All this feeling just got into me and it wouldn't leave me alone. All I kept thinking was you, Owen. How you were my number one customer. I just felt angry for some damn reason and blamed you."

"You expect me to believe you just "didn't know" you were _killing_ someone. Sending people to _stalk_ me, break into my _own_ flat. You think I'd believe _you_?" Owen shouted at him. John grabbed him the moment he saw Owen's fists balling up and dragged him away from Russel. Owen exhaled sharply as he paced around the room.

Russel continued to plead, "You have to believe me. I don't know _why_ I did it. It _just_ happened. I'm sorry, okay. I'm sorry. I didn't want her to die. I didn't even _want_ to scare her. It _just_ happened!"

Owen refused to listen to him anymore and so Sherlock sent for the police to formally arrest Russel for the murder of Sheila and the emotional distress he caused in Owen. Given the nature of Sheila's murder, he expected at most twenty-five years in prison. He still pleaded with Owen even when they put him in the backseat of the cruiser before it pulled from the curb.

Owen felt vertigo come over him and he had to sit back down. Sherlock and John comforted him. Sherlock came through for Owen and got him a nicer flat with controlled rent and the expenses from moving paid in full. He would just have to tell Sherlock when he would move. The building he called home remanded to London since Sheila had no next of kin and thus he would have to move.

Once he felt the air clear, Owen stood up and profusely thanked the men for their help. John offered him medical help whenever he needed it. Sherlock told him to text if anything ever came up. Thus, Owen left for the hotel to collect his things, he decided to move next week since it gave him time to pack everything up and clear his mind of the things that happened.

He was astonished Russel purported the stalking, breaking and entering, and the death of Sheila. He could not believe it. It settled on his mind as the cab took him back that Russel would never resort to that high level of violence. Attacking elderly women would seem cowardly and weak; he even harmed for it since there were still those who held honor and integrity. Yet, Owen's mind still called him guilty.

Returning to the hotel, Owen quickly grabbed everything his before coming out to the cab. It took two hours due to traffic to return to the flat and Owen sauntered up the stairs after having a look at the locked off door to Sheila's. Entering his flat, Owen closed the door behind him and ran a hand through his hair. He took time to relax before he began to box everything up. He given notice to all the websites he worked for that he would be moving for "reasons" and could not do anymore until he set up in his new home. Owen categorized the books as he stuck them in their respected boxes and marked them with a sharpie.

Strangely, Owen felt something he never felt before. Calm.

The air that once heavy and oppressive cleared; Owen could finally breathe again and the feeling of being watched gone. It was all gone, now. He now felt for the very first time since this all happened, normal. He would dispose of the cocaine he had bought from Russel at a later point, for now he wanted to pack up everything.  
As he packed, he remembered Frank. He went over to the turtle and picked him up. "Come on you ugly mug, you're coming with me," he smiled. The turtle said nothing, he was happy for it. The porcelain turtle sat on the table while Owen fetched bubble wrap. As he sat down, he put Frank on top of the bubble wrap and reached for the tape next to him. "I won. I finally did, Frank. I won. I feel like a new man, now, Frank. It's like I'm in a dream," Owen smiled as he prepared to wrap the turtle in the protective bubble wrap.

"Who said _you_ won?" he heard. He stopped cutting the bubble wrap and wielded the scissors in his hand defensively. Looking around, Owen's hazel eyes darted around as they tried to pin point the source of the voice. It sounded too real and too close. "Who's there?" Owen demanded. "Show yourself!"

"Look down here, you twit," he heard the voice again. He glanced down to Frank and flinched. Owen shook his head, "It's not possible."

"Anything's possible, you idiot," the turtle hissed. Owen continued to shake his head. "No, this isn't happening," he denied.

"Oh, it's happening," the turtle rebutted. "You think you won? It's me who won, really."

Owen refused. "You're just a voice in my head. I am going to see a doctor. A _real_ doctor, this time," he tried to tell himself. It did not work.

The turtle laughed. "Please, what doctor are you're going to see, crazy man," he snickered.  
Standing up, Owen looked down at the turtle. "I'm just stressed. I'm not crazy. You're a figment of my imagination!" he shouted at the turtle.

"You're the one _taking_ the pills. Oh wait, you have _not_ been taking your pills. If you've been taking them, I wouldn't have to do all this," he heard the turtle.

Owen snapped the turtle up in his hands and stared at it. "It's a hallucination, it's not real!" he shouted at the turtle, trying to "wake" himself up.

"You're oh so wrong," the turtle only said.

In his rage, Owen threw Frank against the wall and the porcelain turtle shattered into a million pieces. He exhaled sharply as he watched the pile of porcelain debris rested at the bottom, a sole beady eye staring at him from across the room. "You're not real!" Owen shouted. He exhaled again as he looked around. "You're not real!"

His blood froze when he started hearing that laughter. The kind that sent chills up his spine and made his skin prickle and cold sweat flowed freely from his brows, the sort seen in horror movies. "You just don't get it, do you, Owen?" he heard Frank's voice. He glimpsed at the remains of the porcelain turtle and shook his head. The porcelain turtle was gone, destroyed. It dawned on Owen that the turtle was not the one that has been talking to him. It was something else.

Owen glimpsed around as his heart pounded against his ribcage. The laughing echoed throughout his room. It sounded like it could have come from anywhere and he would not know. "I'm not. I'm not crazy!" Owen shouted as his eyes moved around his room. He heard in response, "Oh, no, Owen. You _are_ crazy; why _else_ did I pick _you_?"

Owen's hazel eyes glided around the room as he pressed himself against the wall. "Who are you, what the hell do you want from me?" he yelled aloud. He stopped as he took deep breathes as he felt his heart racing to the point of nearly lunging out of his chest. "Why, I'm Frank," he heard in response. He shook his head repeatedly. "You're not. You're not Frank, I destroyed it!" he shouted. He heard a deep chuckle.

"Oh, Owen, you're so fun. I knew I got a good deal," he heard. "Worth every shilling, too…!"  
Owen glanced at the front door and counted down in his head before he attempted to run toward it, only for the bookcase to fall in front of it. "You think I'll let you escape me?" he heard the voice balk. Turning around, Owen spotted his cellphone and attempted to rush toward it, only for him to trip and fall. "Who'd believe a crazy man, Owen, the police, Sherlock _fawking_ Holmes, do you really believe they could help you?" the voice asked him. "They can't help you, you're all mine."

"You're not real!" Owen shouted as he forced himself up from the ground and crawled toward his cellphone, only for an unseen force pulling him away from it. When he tried to kick, he felt nothing there. With his diminishing strength, he got up and tried jumping for his cellphone, only for him to hit the wall. "I honestly did not want to do all this just for you. I could have taken you whenever I wanted. He, however, convinced me that for the betterment of affairs, keep the "boy detective" busy with you than noising around where he does not belong. We got what we wanted in the end," he heard as he felt eyes on him.

"L-leave me alone, j-just leave me alone!" cried Owen as tears poured from his eyes. He heard footsteps in front of him as he tried to force himself up. He heard the voice tisk at him.

"As if anyone will remember an internet accountant with an addiction, your family abandoned you. Your friends abandoned you. Your employers abandoned you. Do you really think he cares what happens to you after he solves this case?" the voice questioned him as he struggled to look around. Owen stopped as he felt his muscles recoil in pain as he tried moving. "It's a hard life, Owen. You cannot escape it. You can only delay it. Despite what you do, you cannot always win. You can play it safe, but then the idiots will say nonsense about not taking risks. If you were taking said risks, they would complain that you were being brash. It is a twisted world. No matter how much you try to change, you will always stay the same. A leaf does not always remain airborne, does it?"

While the voice made some sense, Owen refused to trust it and continued to try to escape the flat by any means necessary. He pushed himself up from the ground and tried running around the flat, attempting to break out the window, but found it been made with thicker glass and no amount of slamming chairs against it would put a dent in it. "Just give up, I've won," the voice scornfully told him. "I've already ensured it."

"Sherlock, John, anyone hear me!" Owen began to shout at the top of his lungs hoping someone will hear him and attempt to aid him. However, he felt himself knocked to the ground by a blunt force and wheezed as he grasped his chest. He struggled to look around and groggily shouted, "You're just a voice in my head. You're not real!"

"Am I?" the voice balked.

Owen whimpered as he tried to look around, looking for a way to escape the room. However, the voice trapped him like a rat. He then heard the voice say to him, "Gaze upon me, see that I am not a crazy man's drugs induced imagination."

The only thing Owen could do was scream, his hazel eyes wildly moving, attempting to escape his eye sockets.

The flat grew silent. When police arrived due to noise complaints and managed to enter it, they found it torn apart no trace of Owen. His cellphone and computer destroyed but nothing taken. Chairs smashed against the window, the window heavily warped from the force. There were some blood spots here and there, but nothing that would indicate what happened. In the bathroom, police found nothing. In his room, they found a baggie of cocaine stowed away in his drawers.

When Sherlock and John arrived to the scene, they pieced together the pieces to discern what happened.

"What the hell happened?" John stared in horror as he saw the living room smashed up. Owen's computer destroyed, hard drive and all, the television's screen destroyed, books torn apart, and a pile of rubble by the wall. Upon closer inspection, it was Frank the Porcelain Turtle or what remained of him. He had been shattered completely with the only exception of a beady eye starring at Sherlock and John as they gazed at the pile. "Why smash Frank?" John looked at Sherlock. Sherlock furrowed his brow as he shook his head. "I have no idea, John," he replied.

They explored the flat and attempted to look for clues. There was no trace of Owen and it looked like someone destroyed everything in his flat. "I don't understand, I thought we solved the case," John shook his head. He remembered how Sherlock was sure a spurred drugs dealer who grudged against Owen killed Sheila to silence her; how he sent, some grunts to do whatever it took to make Owen pay. How police found his set of fingerprints on the hilt of the rapier. "Sherlock, he's sitting in jail. Did he send someone to do this?"

Sherlock glimpsed around the flat, what remained of it, anyway. In his twisted mind, he had no idea. It pained him to admit he was wrong. How pathetically wrong he was. He was sure of it; the motive was there, the evidence told all. He knew how the dealer used his connections with the unscrupulous police officers to ensure Owen never got help. The downfall he had a man who had a craving for M&M's except for the brown colored ones. A man who loved to listen to Matilda Smith and even bought her latest album during the time they would need to avoid exposure as much as possible. Sherlock was beside himself as he looked around.

"Sherlock, do you think he's still alive?" John asked him. "He could have escaped, you know."

Sherlock slowly walked to the remains of Frank and picked up the eye. Studying it, it struck Sherlock, something he never felt before. He shook his head as he unconsciously said, "He isn't, John. Not anymore."

Police continued to conduct a thorough search and though they had help from Sherlock, Owen van Burton never turned up again. No one saw him or anyone who may have looked like him. Security cameras never noticed anything and by the end of the year, police announced the case closed following the lack of evidence. When Sherlock went to interrogate Owen's former drug dealer, he had hung himself. His cell empty and he made no calls. His body cremated per his family's wishes and his ashes sprinkled in the Thames.

Sherlock turned to the internet for help. No one knew anything. Some tried their hand but failed. Others could not locate an image of Owen that wasn't doctored by software. It was as if he disappeared off the face of the earth. Attempting to retrace his steps, Sherlock went to the clinic he gone to and learned of Dr. Mason's departure. He tracked down the clinic that the doctor transferred and they had no knowledge of who Dr. Mason was. He had disappeared, too.

The clinic he worked had no file on him, it was missing, and no one got a good look. They did not know who he was, but his credentials were legitimate and thought they looked thoroughly; he was a professional medical doctor.

Sherlock went to the police station Owen attempted to register his complaints. They had no knowledge of the clerks who worked when Owen made complaints. Nothing in the systems pointed to anyone in particular.

Wracked with guilt and shame, Sherlock returned to his flat and lapsed. When John arrived at the flat the next morning to check on Sherlock, he saw the needle sticking out of his arm. Though John was angry with Sherlock for this, he could not blame him one bit. He felt the same thing. They failed Owen. Now he is gone, aloof, and likely dead at this point. Wherever his body was, they will not likely find it.

John helped Sherlock clean up and helps him come down from his high and ensure he did nothing permanent. He made tea to wake Sherlock. Sherlock showered and dressed in a new set of clothes before returning to the kitchen.

The two discussed the case and come to a sound conclusion. Something happened to Owen. No one knew it. Whatever happened to Owen, they will not likely ever find out. "Perhaps he committed suicide?" John grimly deduced as he let his tea seep. "Maybe the dealer's men didn't finish the job."

Sherlock stared into his cup of tea and shook his head. "No, I don't think so. I don't think it was them, John," he finally said. John looked at him confusingly. Before he could say anything, Mrs. Hudson appeared with mail for Sherlock. Sherlock went through it quickly. Much of it fan mail, junk, and something peculiar. It was a small, neatly made, card. It was white and had deep intentions of textured frills all around it. In the center, something written, with an inkwell pen: DOCTOR.

"What does it mean?" John blinked as he looked at the card. Sherlock studied it and shook his head. It was simple stationary from a store; the cursive writing while easily identifiable meant nothing with nothing to compare it to, they will not be able to trace it.

Sherlock sighed as he sat the card down and placed his hands under his chin. "I don't know, John," Sherlock only said. "I don't know."

The End


End file.
